The holidays are here, and one casualty of the pandemic is our children’s willingness to return home. Thanks to several months of forced isolation within its very walls, they have come to view our house as The Place Where Dreams Go to Die. While an unfair reputation, it is an understandable one, born of months of reverting back to the old parent-child ways with increasingly older participants. On one hand: Adult children who have their own routines, preferences, and secrets. On the other: Middle-aged parents who worry aloud about sufficient fiber consumption and who refer to “Wheel of Fortune” simply as “Wheel.”

We housed our daughter for five months, and our son for nearly three, until she returned to college and he left to start his first real job. This job is in Philadelphia, a place he visited and loved on a 2020 spring break trip that just avoided COVID-related shutdowns by the skin of its teeth. I have always talked a big game about moving to cities I have fallen quickly and madly in love with during brief visits — San Francisco, Manhattan, Austin, Asheville, Charlottesville — but the only move I have made in the last 28 years is two doors down.

But not my son. He applied for a job in Philly, and he got it, and despite every desire to keep him within a reasonable drive, we financed the expedition. By the time he left, it was TIME — time to say farewell to the enormous grocery bills, the job-seeking anxiety, the feeling that he was willing to gnaw off his leg to escape the trap — and I thought that I would dance in the middle of 45th Street when that time came.

But then I saw this sight —

— and I sobbed. As the man married to a woman who cries at everything, Chris sighed, pulled me into a hug, and assured me that our son would call needing something soon. Sure enough, my phone rang seven minutes later: He had forgotten his pillow. I clutched it on the sidewalk as I waited for him to return.

He likes his job, and while he likes the city, it surprises him. On the trolley one day, he caught an older woman looking at him; when he smiled and waved, she yelled at him and got off at the next stop. He has seen a large fistfight erupt on the steps of City Hall and a man hit by a train. The weather is cold, and things are expensive. But it is a walkable place, and in Rittenhouse Square, he saw a young woman — a law student, it turns out — reading The Great Gatsby. He introduced himself.

Meanwhile, our daughter has transferred to school in Athens, something she swore she would never do. I told her for years that she would love it there, and she told me for years that I had no idea of what I was talking about. The older I get, the more I realize the truth of this statement, but I was pretty sure I was right about Athens. And I was. When she finally admitted it, it took every ounce of self-control I had not to gloat.

If you are only as happy as your unhappiest child, the last few months have been some of my best. There was a Sunday morning driving home on I-95 from Florida when I talked to each child in succession, their contentment apparent over the car’s Bluetooth-enabled speakers. I have read that child-rearing on a day-to-day basis brings about as much happiness as cleaning house; its real benefit comes from the moments of transcendent joy. As the second call ended, I pulled into a BP station, sat at the pump, and wept. This is what they meant.

My cancer diagnosis was two years ago on November 15. It was (to put it mildly) a life-changing event, one that seems in both my immediate and far distant past. I think about having had cancer every single day. I planned to celebrate this November 15 with a trip to Saint Simons for a walk on the beach. It was on that beach a few days after the diagnosis that I walked with Emmet, then a months-old puppy, and planned for my future, or at least whatever was left of it. I remember not praying to get well, for that seemed to be far too much to ask, but for the strength to handle what came my way with grace and humor. The weather on that walk was perfect, and the waves scared Emmet, and because it is the story of my life, a woman who looked normal but was completely crazy accosted me to ask me to weigh in on her ex-husband’s gaining custody of their children. I looked like a lawyer, she said, to which I responded, I have cancer. She was not expecting that, and to be fair, neither was I.

I thought a reprise of this walk was in order — albeit without the crazy lady — on November 15, 2020, but when it looked like I had court in Brunswick only a few days later, I decided to take the walk then. Chris was 100% on board with this plan, for what better way to conduct pleasure than with a little business thrown in? (As I tell everyone: Chris intends to work a half day, and then attend his own funeral.) Those plans fell through, and so did later plans, and then even more plans disappeared into the mist, leaving me with both the simplest and greatest celebration possible: I am alive. If, as a 52 year-old adult, you ever doubt your parents’ continuing love for you, know that my father texted me that he thanked God every day for the blessing of my still being here.

As do I.

My bar is so low these days: It does not take much for me to be happy. When the bird feeder needs to be refilled, the birds congregate outside the windows of my house and follow me through the downstairs as I throw open the blinds. Feed me, they chirp, feed me. The chorus began in earnest this morning, and when I opened the back door, they sat on the rear fence, lined in a row. I fed them and watched the giant male cardinal — the one so large that I wonder how he still flies — eat first, followed by his mate. An hour later, as I walked Emmet into work, a runner called me “young lady” and the garbage men waved. Chris and I ate lunch out, a rare treat these days, and when we returned, we told our staff to leave. I have found time to write. I have allowed myself an unprecedented three cans of orange LaCroix. It is only 3:12 p.m., and I cannot imagine a better day.

And to my delight, the children have relaxed their anti-home bias. Our son asked yesterday if we could fly him home for Christmas, and before he could change his mind, I made those arrangements, cheerfully reminding him that the fare was non-refundable. My daughter — always the stubborn one — stuck to her staying-in-Athens guns. So I set a trap. Would her dog like a trip to the groomer? Would she like to use my $20 Michaels rewards certificate for a whole lot of embroidery floss? Could she perhaps benefit from the $50 gas card that Publix had on sale for $40? (Yes, dear reader, the skinflintedness is real, and passed along to my children, both of whom would appreciate that this prize package contemplated THIRTY FREE DOLLARS.) After exacting a concession that we would put up the Christmas tree on Friday, she agreed to come home. I cannot wait to have her here.

But first, there is a pandemic celebration: Chris and I will drive for hours tomorrow to sit in his brother’s backyard and eat turkey from paper plates. We will bump elbows, not hug, and blow kisses. We will work hard to keep Emmet from helping himself to any bowl of ice cream held tantalizingly at nose level. We will leave early and drive back home and complain about back pain and feel terrible that we are part of the reason gas station workers have to work on a holiday.

Is this the table I would have set for myself if I had a choice? Absolutely not. Fortunately, the thanksgiving itself is real.

With love and gratitude,

ALC