Inside the house, there is a familiar silence. It is warm and dense, filled with the smells of dough, pine needles, and the heat of the stove. In moments like these, loneliness at eighty-two does not weigh on me; on the contrary, it brings a sense of peace. I hear the floorboards creak, I feel the house respond—the house my husband and I built together many years ago. My husband has been gone for a long time, but his presence is still felt within these walls.

I know it won’t last long. Very soon the house will be filled with voices, footsteps, laughter, and bustle. My son Max will arrive with his wife, their daughter, and along with them relatives and acquaintances. Sixteen people in total. I cook for everyone, as I have done for many years.