“Leftovers are a gift. Never apologize for leftovers.”
“Good because we’ll be eating them in the RV,” Grandma Sarah added.
The family gathered around the table, pulling chairs from other rooms to make space for everyone. Beth settled into an armchair that Gabriel had dragged in from the living room.
Emily found a spot between Sarah and Chelsea, looking slightly overwhelmed by the chaos but making no move to retreat. Sarah passed her an egg roll without comment, and Emily accepted it with a small nod of thanks.
Michael stood at the head of the table, where their father used to sit, and raised a glass of wine. The room gradually quieted, conversations trailing off as everyone turned to look at him.
“I'm not good at speeches,” he said. “That was always Dad's thing, and we all know how I feel about doing things the way Dad did them.”
A ripple of knowing laughter moved through the room.
“But someone should say something. On the last night in this house, someone should acknowledge what we're leaving behind.” He paused, looking around at the faces of his family. “I have a lot of memories in this house. Some of them are good. Some of them are complicated. Some of them I'm still trying to make sense of, even now.”
He glanced at the empty chair at the other end of the table, the one no one had sat in, the one that seemed to hold Daniel's absence like a physical presence.
“But here's what I know for sure. The best parts of my childhood happened in these rooms. Learning to walk in that living room. Doing homework at this table. Sneaking downstairs on Christmas morning to see what Santa brought.” His voice caught slightly. “Having Mom make us pancakes every Sunday, even when she was exhausted, because she said Sundays were for family.”
Maggie felt tears prick at her eyes. She remembered those Sunday mornings, the kitchen full of noise and mess and children clamoring for chocolate chips in their pancakes. She had been tired, always tired, but she had loved those mornings with a fierce and uncomplicated joy.
“This house wasn't perfect,” Michael continued. “Our family wasn't perfect. But we were here, together, and that mattered. That still matters.” He raised his glass higher. “To the house on Maple Street. Thank you for holding us while we grew.”
“To the house,” everyone echoed, raising their own glasses.
They drank, and for a moment the room was silent, everyone lost in their own memories.
Then Christopher cleared his throat and stood up, and Maggie felt a flutter of surprise. Her second son was not typically one for public speaking. He preferred action to words, had always shown his love through what he did rather than what he said.
“I want to add something,” he said. “If that's okay.”
“Of course,” Michael said, sitting back down.
Christopher looked around the table, his gaze settling briefly on Becca, who smiled encouragement, and then on Eloise, asleep in her portable crib in the corner.
“When I came back from overseas,” he said slowly, “I was broken. Not just my leg, all of me. I didn't know who I was anymore. I didn't know if I could ever have a normal life, be a husband, a father, a functioning human being. I just knew I was in pain and I couldn't make it stop.”
The room had gone very still. Christopher rarely talked about his time in the military or the injury that had ended his career. Even Becca looked surprised.
“Mom let me move in at the inn on Captiva. She gave me space to heal, to figure things out, to find hope for a future I didn’t know if I’d ever have.” He looked at Maggie, and she saw tears glistening in his eyes. “Marrying Becca and moving into this house was one of the greatest gifts Mom ever gave me. Eloise took her first steps in that living room. This house gave us a place to fall apart and put ourselves back together.”
He paused, collecting himself. “From Captiva Island to Andover, Massachusetts, I healed, grew, believed in myself and above all, remembered where I came from and found pride in my accomplishments once more. But here's the thing I realized this week, going through all this stuff, saying goodbye to these rooms. The house didn't heal me. The people did. Mom. Becca. My brother and sisters. All of you.” He gestured around the table. “Home isn't a building. It's not walls and floors and a roof. Home is the people who show up for you when you're broken. Home is the family that makes room for you, no matter what.”
He looked at Emily then, deliberately, including her in what came next.
“We're leaving this house. But we're not leaving home. Because home is wherever we are together. Whether it’s Florida,Boston or Andover, home is this loud, messy, complicated family that somehow keeps finding its way back to each other.”
He raised his glass.
“To home. The real one. The one we carry with us.”
“To home,” the family echoed, and this time when they drank, Maggie let the tears fall freely.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of food and conversation and laughter. Lauren told stories about her children's latest adventures. Sarah complained about Trevor in the affectionate way that meant she actually adored him. Michael talked about a case he was working on, careful to leave out the details that would give anyone nightmares.
Emily listened to it with a small smile on her face, and Maggie watched her gradually relax into the chaos.
As the evening wound down, people began drifting through the house, saying their own private goodbyes.
