Over the next three days I vacillate between numb disbelief and gut-wrenching misery. Work is slow, as it always is before holidays, so I spend most of my time editing at home—and much of that time in bed. Jess informs me that excessive sleep is a sign of depression—as if that is some kind of revelation. She gives me turbocharged, Richard Simmons-esque pep talks. I shrug her off, telling her that I'll be fine. Even though I'm not at all convinced that I will be.

My lowest point comes in the middle of the night when I wake up after dreaming the final scene in The Graduate. Everything is just like the movie, only I am Dustin Hoffman and Ben does not leave a very pregnant Tucker at the altar. Instead, he and his whole family just look at me like I'm crazy until Ray and Annie each grab one of my arms and cart me out of the church and stick me on that bus, all alone. I wake up, sweaty and teary and so full of fury that I scare myself.

The next morning, I find Jess in her room, doing last-minute packing for her trip to Alabama with Michael. Against my better judgment, I tell her about my nightmare.

She says, "Well. Fortunately, you will be reclaiming Ben prior to their wedding day."

I give her a blank look, and she says, "Like on Monday?"

I shake my head and say, "There isn't going to be any reclaiming… And I'm not going to go through with seeing Ben on Monday."

"What?" she says.

"I'm canceling," I say emphatically.

"Oh, no you're not," she says even more emphatically.

"There's no point," I say with a listless shrug.

"There is too a point," she says. "Look, Claudia. The fact that they got engaged doesn't really change the analysis here."

"Yeah, it does," I say.

"No, it doesn't!" she says. "If Ben can get a divorce from the love of his life, he can most certainly break off an engagement."

"How do we know that she's not the love of his life?"

"Because you are," she says. "And you only get one of those."

"Since when do you subscribe to that notion?" I say.

"Since I've finally experienced true love."

"Well. I got news for you, Jess. Ben loves her," I say. "He wouldn't propose if he didn't love her. He wants a baby, but not that badly."

"Fine. Maybe he does love her in some narrow way. But he loves you more and you know it… He doesn't have full information. He needs full information. Once he knows that you want children, he'll have to break up with her."

"I don't want children."

"Yes you do."

"No I don't," I say. "I would have been theoretically willing to have his."

"Same difference."

"Not really."

She zips up her red Tod's bag with authority and says, "Well. I say we let Ben be the judge of that. Shall we?"

Meanwhile, my own Thanksgiving plans are up in the air until the eleventh hour. Maura almost always hosts a dinner at her house, but for obvious reasons, this year is the exception. Daphne is the logical backup choice because my father, understandably, refuses to go to Dwight and Mom's house, but when we tell my mother the plan, she gets on her soapbox about "you girls never coming over here." And then shoots off on another tangent about how we've never really accepted Dwight. I am in no mood for her nonsense so I quickly squelch her spirit and say, "Listen here, Vera. We're going to Daphne's. You can't even cook."

"We can have food brought in," she says.

"Mom. Drop it. The decision is made."

"Says who?" she says in the voice of a small child.

"Says me," I say. "So join us or don't. Entirely up to you."

I hang up and decide that the only true beauty of hitting rock bottom is that nothing can really faze or rile you. Not even your mother.

A few minutes later she calls me back with a conciliatory, "Claudia?"

"Yes?" I say.

"I've decided."

"And?"

"I'll come," she says meekly.

"Good girl," I say.

Thanksgiving morning is bleak and gray and drizzly, but also unseasonably warm, a depressing holiday combination. It takes every bit of will I have to get out of bed, shower, and dress. One of my mother's life principles flashes in my head—if you dress up and look pretty, you will feel better. And although I basically agree with this, I discard the advice and settle on an ancient J. Crew rollneck sweater and a pair of Levi's with threadbare knees. I tell myself that at least it beats sweats and sneakers, which I resist only because I can just envision "wearing sweats and sneakers on Thanksgiving" listed in a Suicide Warning Signs pamphlet.

I can't find a cab so I have to walk to Penn Station and barely make my noon train. I am stuck in a seat facing backward, which always gives me motion sickness. Then, about halfway to Huntington, I realize that I left my fancy rwenty-eight-dollar pumpkin pie from Balthazar on the kitchen counter. I say shit aloud. An old woman across the aisle from me turns and gives me a disapproving stare. I mouth sorry, although I'm thinking, Mind your own business, lady. Then I spend the next twenty minutes worrying that I will turn into the kind of disgruntled person who dislikes old people. Or worse, I will become a bitter old person who hates the young.

When my father picks me up at the train station, I tell him that we need to swing by the grocery store to pick up a pie.

"Screw the pie," my dad says, which I translate to mean, I heard about Ben's engagement.

"No. Really, Dad," I say. "I promised Daphne I'd bring a pumpkin pie."

Translation: I'm a total loser. All I have left is my word.

My dad shrugs and a few moments later we pull into the Waldbaum's parking lot. I run inside, grab two skimpy pumpkin pies, already reduced to half price, and head for the express "twelve items or less" lane.

Fewer, I say to myself, thinking of how amused Ben was when I corrected grammar on public signage. Twelve items or fewer, dammit. I truly hope that Tucker is a math-science girl in the strictest sense of things and screws up her pronouns on a daily basis. She is Harvard-educated, so I know her mistakes aren't overt, as in, Me and Daddy are going to the store, but with some luck, she might be prone to making other sorts of mistakes—the kind intelligent people make while believing that they are being intelligent. Like failing to use the objective case for all parts of the compound object following a preposition, as in: Do you want to come with Daddy and I?

The beauty of this is that Ben will be forced to think of me every single time. Then, one day, he might break down and share with Tucker the trick I taught him so long ago: Try each part of the object in a separate sentence. "Do you want to come with Daddy?" "Do you want to come with me?" Hence: "Do you want to come with Daddy and me?" Maybe her eyes will narrow and a cloud will pass over her face. "Did your ex-wife teach you that one?" she'll say with disdain born from jealousy and failure to measure up. Because she might be able to put people back together again, but she will never be able to diagram a sentence as I can.

Then, as I'm paying for my two sorry pies and some Cool Whip, I see Charlie, my high school boyfriend, get in line behind me. I usually like running into Charlie, and other high school friends, but my divorce has changed that. It's just not the sort of update you feel like inserting in small talk, but at the same time, it's rather impossible to avoid mentioning. Besides, I've about reached my quota for chance meetings this week and don't have it in me to be friendly. I keep my head low and slip the checkout girl a twenty.

Just as I think I'm going to escape, Charlie says, "Claudia? Is that you?"

It occurs to me to pretend that I didn't hear him and just keep walking, but I like Charlie and don't want to come across as an urban snob—something he once accused me of being—so I turn, smile, and give him my best impersonation of a happy, well-adjusted adult. "Hey, Charlie!" I say. "Happy Thanksgiving!"

"You, too, Claudia!" he says, pushing forward his last-minute items: a gallon of whole milk, three cans of cranberry sauce, and a box of tampons. "How ya doin'?"

"Fine!" I say brightly as I look down and see Charlie's son shaking a pack of orange Tic Tacs. He looks exactly like Charlie's kindergarten photo, which was framed in his foyer the whole time we were dating. The little boy looks up at his father and says, "Can we get these, Dad?"

I anticipate a, No. Put it back, which is the standard parental grocery-store retort, but Charlie says, "Sure. Why not?" and tosses the Tic Tacs on the belt.

I smile, remembering what I liked most about my first boyfriend—his knee-jerk response was always, "Why not?" He was uncomplicated and upbeat and easy. At one point, I might have thought these traits made him a simpleton, but now I think they just translate to happiness. After all, he is the one with a family. He is the one buying hygiene products for his spouse. And I'm the one who is divorced, with my father waiting for me in the car outside.

"So what's doin'?" Charlie says with a big smile.

"Not much," I say and try to deflect with a question about his son. "Is this your oldest?"

"No!" Charlie says. "This is my youngest, Jake… Jake, this is Claudia."

Jake and I shake hands, and I pray that we're winding up, but then Charlie asks, "How's Ben?"

"Actually, we got a divorce," I say.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I say. "He's getting remarried."

Then I laugh at my own joke. Charlie does, too, but it is the awkward sort of pity-laugh, not a ha-ha laugh. We exchange a few more pleasantries, both of us promising to tell our families hello. All the while, I can tell he's thinking, I knew it. I knew she was in for a sad life when she told me after our prom that she didn't want kids.

Daphne has everything under control when my father and I arrive at her house. But by under control, I don't mean Maura's version of polished perfection. On the contrary, Daphne's house is in a state of noisy disarray. The kitchen is a mess, and Tony's football game is competing with Daphne's favorite Enrique Iglesias CD and their frantic Yorkies. Still, everything smells good and feels comfortable. Daphne is standing at the stove, all four burners ablaze. She is wearing her GOT CARBS? apron and looks relaxed. My father joins Tony in the family room, and I put my pies and Cool Whip in the refrigerator and say, "Hope you have dessert backup."

"Of course I do," Daphne says, smiling proudly and pointing to a freshly rolled-out pie crust on the counter.

"So," I say, settling onto a bar stool. "Have you heard from Maura? Is he coming?"

Daphne knows I'm referring to Scott. She sets about peeling a Granny Smith apple and tells me that as of this morning, Maura hadn't decided whether to let him come or stay home alone. She was pleased to know that Scott's parents and sister's family had already booked a trip to Disney World for the holiday—so if she chose to exclude him, he'd have no backup plan.

A moment later we hear my mother and Dwight at the front door.

"Hell-ooo?" my mother trills as she sails into the kitchen, heavily perfumed, wearing a flowing St. John ensemble with navy pumps. Her outfit conjures the phrase "dressy casual," which is her favorite dress-code designation for her own parties. Despite her allergies to dogs, she gathers up Daphne's Yorkies and allows them to lick her mouth. "He-wo, Gary! He-wo, Anna!" she croons as I think that baby talk to dogs is only slightly more annoying than baby talk to babies.

Dwight is also dressy casual. He is sporting tasseled loafers, Ray Bans, and a jacket with shiny, gold buttons. He takes off his glasses and presents three bottles of merlot to Daphne. Then he rubs his hands together vigorously enough to start a fire. "Soo, ladies, what's shakin'?" he says, surveying the simmering pots. "Smells good in here, Daph!"

Then, as I watch him strut around the kitchen, I think of how Ben used to imitate his walk and say, "Ever notice the way Dwight's pelvis enters a room about five minutes before he does?" I always liked when he made fun of Dwight, yet the thought that Ben might share such observations about my family (even my mother's husband) with his bride-to-be has the strangest effect of creating loyalty where none existed before. Dwight isn't a bad guy, I think, as I kiss him hello for what very well could be the first time ever. I wait for my mother to put down the dogs, wash her hands, and use her inhaler. Then I give her a hug.

"So good of you to dress up," she whispers in my ear.

I smile and say, "Yes. But you'll be happy to know that should there be an accident and I am disrobed by a paramedic, I am wearing my best underwear."

She smiles as if to say, I taught you well.

The doorbell rings, and we all glance at each other nervously, a question hanging in the air: Will Scott show up with his family?

Even my mother is subdued.

"You get the door," Daphne says as she nervously reties her apron.

I head to the door. When I open it, I am genuinely surprised to see Scott. I really thought Maura was leaning toward banishment. Hillary Clinton's quote about Bill pops into my head: "He's a hard dog to keep on the porch." Clearly the same can be said of Scott. Although here he is, back on the porch with Maura.

"Hi, guys," I say, bending down to hug the kids first. Zoe points to her stitches—or more accurately, the spot where they once were. "They disappeared," she says. "Just like Dr. Steve said they would!"

I laugh and hug her again.

When I stand, I look right into Scott's eyes. For once, they don't look smug or beady. Instead, he is more chagrined and contrite than he was on Saturday night. And Maura looks even peppier. I think to myself, Carefree, confident, popular girl is on a date with ever-grateful, second-tier wannabe. It is role reversal for them, and I am filled with a sense of nostalgia, remembering that was how my sister used to be, in the days before Scott. I wonder what happened first. Did Scott's behavior change Maura into a victim and put her in a constant state of anxiety? Or did her priorities somehow get skewed, so that she could allow someone like Scott in her life?

I give him a chilly hello and then kiss my sister. More tense hellos are exchanged in the kitchen. Then we all move into the family room to watch the football game that only Tony really cares about. I keep my mind off Ben by observing Scott and Maura. He is pandering to her every need—refilling her wine glass, rubbing her shoulders, handling the kids when they act up—and I find myself thinking of one of Annie's theories on relationships that she calls the "benevolent dictator" theory. She says that in an ideal relationship, the balance of power is equal. But if someone has to have more power, that someone needs to be the woman. Her reasoning is that when most men wield the power, they abuse it and succumb to their innately self-serving, self-indulgent instincts. Women who have power, on the other hand, tend to rule in the interest of the family unit rather than their own self-interest. Which is why matriarchal societies are peaceful, harmonious ones. And why societies ruled by males are ultimately destroyed in war.

Of course when Annie first shared this theory with me in college, I tried to debunk it with tales of my own parents. I told her my mother held all the power—and was all about self-interest—while my father was the well-intentioned good guy. Yet, upon looking around, I had to begrudgingly admit that Annie was onto something and that my family seemed to be the exception to the rule. My friends with divorced parents almost all had passive martyrs for mothers; and the ones with parents in strong marriages all seemed to have forceful mothers and doting husbands.

I watch Maura now, imagining her coronation as benevolent dictator. The ruler who could have cruelly left Scott at home with a Swanson frozen dinner after usurping him from the throne. Instead, she brought him along to our family feast. She showed him a drop of grace and at least short-term clemency. Some might say this makes her a fool or a coward. I might have said the same thing last week. But as I watch her today, I think it has more to do with strength of spirit, of wanting to do what is best for her children and struggling to find that answer. Still, children or no children, I also know that she's reached the end of the line. If Scott is lucky enough to survive this incident, I am certain that she will not tolerate another betrayal, even a small hint of one. This is his final, final chance at redemption. I can tell Scott knows it, too.

I just wonder if sheer force of will to forgive can be enough to set things right for my sister and her family. Because after all, power is one thing. Love is a different creature altogether.

When the turkey is done, we are told to migrate to the dining room, despite Tony's request that we watch the end of the game and eat on TV trays. Daphne doesn't dignify this with a response. Instead she ignores him and says, "Everyone grab a beverage and c'mon!"

Dwight leads the charge, a glass of wine in one hand and a can of diet Dr Pepper in the other. As he rounds the corner, he booms, "Whoa! Look out! Assigned seating!"

Sure enough, Daphne has set the table with little place cards made out of brown construction paper and pilgrim stickers. She has placed smaller ones at a card table for Zoe, Patrick, and William.

Maura eagerly circles the table, inspecting the names, as people do at a wedding reception. She quickly plucks Scott's up and switches it with Dwight's so that she is no longer seated next to her husband. Meanwhile, Scott frowns and the rest of us pretend not to notice as we take our seats.

Tony says the blessing, and afterward, Daphne insists on adhering to our family tradition—we all must name something we are grateful for. I personally think that that is a mighty dangerous activity considering the tenuous circumstances that comprise our lives on this particular Thursday. But I'm not about to rock the boat. Instead, my mind races with generic possibilities for my own offering.

Daphne gives a final instruction, "Remember. No repeats." Then she says, "Dwight, you can start."

Dwight smiles and says, "Okeydokey. I'm grateful for the food on this table that Daphne prepared for us. Everything looks great!"

"Dammit, Dwight," I say. "You took mine."

Dwight laughs and says, "I'm also grateful that I got to go first!"

Zoe clamors to go next. She says she is grateful that her head is better and that she had so much fun with Aunt Claudia last weekend. I smile at her. Zoe then says she will go for Patrick and William. She says that her brothers are grateful for all of their toys and books.

My mother picks up at the adult table where Dwight left off. She looks at the ceiling, as if pondering her bounty of blessings. She is always good for an unexpected, attention-grabbing song of thanksgiving. One year it was: "I'm grateful that Ross Perot did so well in this year's election. "Another year: "I'm grateful that my husband Dwight now knows that gifts from Kohl's and other retail stores of that ilk, though well intentioned, are not acceptable."

This year she goes the self-aggrandizing route and says, "I'm thankful for the creative energy our Lord has bestowed upon me as I have embarked on my exciting new career in photography."

I try not to crack up and am assisted in this effort by the fact that Scott is up. His eyes remain closed, as if still in prayer. Last year I remember he was grateful that the stock market was finally rebounding and the economy getting back on track. This year, he clears his throat and says, "I'm grateful to be here at this table."

His simple statement is the most genuine and humble utterance I've ever heard from him, and I can't help feeling moved. I am a long ways from forgiving him, but I realize that empathy might be the first step. And I do feel nearly sorry for him. Maura, on the other hand, looks completely unfazed when she quickly comes back with, "I'm thankful for my beautiful children, my supportive parents, and my loyal sisters."

Ouch, I think.

"What about Daddy?" Zoe says. The child misses nothing.

"Oh, yes, Zoe, thank you," Maura says. "I'm grateful that you have a daddy who loves you and your brothers."

This seems to appease her, so we move on to my dad. After he gives his standard thanks for the health of everyone at the table, it is my turn.

I know I have a lot to be grateful for, but all I can think of is Ben. Of how my life feels so depleted without him. I think for another minute, surveying the faces around the table. Ben and I used to be our own little family, but now the people in this room are the only family I have. The only family I likely will ever have. So I say, "I am thankful for the love in this room. For knowing that despite any trouble we might find ourselves in, we will be here for one another in the end."

Everyone is quiet for a moment. Even William and Patrick look somber.

"Okay," I say. "Daph?"

We all look at my sister. She and Tony clasp hands and smile at each other, and I instantly know that they have big news. That we will all have something real to be happy about.

Sure enough, my sister smiles angelically and says, "Tony and I want to do one together this year." Then she looks around the table and says, "We are grateful that God is finally blessing us with a child."

My mother gasps. "Dear God! You're pregnant! It's a miracle!"

"No, Mother," Daphne says quickly. "I'm not pregnant… But you're right, it is a miracle."

Her voice breaks as if she is about to cry so Tony continues for her. "We're adopting a baby. A baby boy. He's due on December twenty-second."

For one moment, we are all stunned and then our collective shock converts to the purest form of joy, the kind that translates to simultaneous laughter and tears. Daphne regains composure, telling us to eat before the food gets cold.

"As if we can eat! Tell us the details," Maura says as she stands and hugs Daphne, then kisses Tony.

We all follow suit, standing in line to congratulate the proud parents-to-be. Even Scott seems to forget that he is in the doghouse as he high-fives Tony.

Then as we all sit back down and share our Thanksgiving meal, Daphne tells us about her fateful meeting with her son's birth mother in an Easy Spirit store at the mall in Huntington. We all laugh at her introduction because it is just like Daphne to befriend strangers.

"Easy Spirit?" Maura says and then mockingly spouts off the company motto, " 'Looks like a pump, feels like a sneaker!' "

Daphne smiles and says to Maura, "I know, you're appalled by my fashion sensibilities, but those shoes are so comfortable… And I'm not trying to impress fifth-graders with my footwear."

My father throws his hands up in mock exasperation and says, "Enough of the shoes! Tell us what happened!"

"Okay," Daphne says. "So I'm trying on these shoes and this really cute, young pregnant girl sits down next to me. I notice that she's not wearing a wedding band, and I start wondering if her hand is just swollen from being pregnant and her rings won't fit or if she's not married and got pregnant accidentally. And I'm sort of thinking that it was an accident because, you know, she looks soo young. Then I have to admit, I have this pang of bitterness, like, how is that fair? How can some people have a baby so easily and get pregnant when they don't try at all and don't even really want a baby?"

"Daphne!" Maura and I say in tandem. Daphne is known in our family for being the slowest, most circuitous storyteller of all time.

Daphne laughs and streamlines her tale. She says that she and the girl—whose name is Amber—got to talking about how comfortable Easy Spirits are. Amber told Daphne that she waitresses at night and her feet hurt all the time. Daphne told Amber that she's a teacher and she sure knows about achy feet. It turns out that Amber is in college getting her degree in education. Daphne asked her what college. Amber said Hofstra, which is where Daphne went to school. They then discussed professors they both know and courses Amber is taking and where she'd like to someday student-teach.

So then Daphne asked about her baby, and after a few minutes of polite chatter about the gender and due date, Amber came right out and told Daphne the rest of her story—that she got pregnant accidentally (the condom broke) and her boyfriend—now ex-boyfriend—wanted her to have an abortion. And so did her parents. But Amber said she just couldn't do that. But she also knows in her heart that she isn't ready to be a mother and that it wouldn't be fair to the baby to try. She wants a better life for her son. So she decided to give the baby up for adoption. She researched agencies and finally registered with one in Westchester, the kind that facilitates open adoptions. She said she had met several couples, but just hadn't found the right match yet. She said that everyone had been supernice, but the vibe was always off. Now the baby was coming soon so she was running out of time.

Daphne pauses for a second to sip from her water glass. Then she says, "At this point, I just burst into tears with this guy named Bo helping me into a pair of chocolate-brown loafers… Then, I find myself confiding in Amber, telling her all about our struggles. And when I finish, we just sort of look at each other. Straight into each other's eyes. And it's like, in that instant, we both just knew that we were meant to meet… So we end up buying the same pair of shoes, and going to the food court to talk more. That night she came over for dinner and met Tony, and they hit it off, too. Right, Tony?"

Tony nods. "Yeah. I really like her… She has a good head on her shoulders."

"And a great, big heart," Daphne adds.

"What does she look like?" Maura asks.

Daphne says, "She's cute. She has straight brown hair and dark eyes and a sweet smile. She's tall… at least five ten."

"The tall part is pretty cool," Tony says. Tony is on the short side and frequently laments his height with respect to athletics. Daphne says he had the ball-handling skills and three-point shot to play college basketball. If only he had been a little taller.

"Do you know anything about the… father?" I ask.

"Yeah. We saw a picture of the birth father," Daphne says, subtly correcting me, letting all of us know that Tony will be the only father, not the pimply teenager who impregnated Amber, then dumped her and encouraged her to abort. I will not make that mistake again. She continues, "He looks like your normal, average guy. He goes to Hofstra, too…"

"And he's six three," Tony says, laughing.

"So what exactly is an open adoption?" I ask.

Daphne tells us that Amber will be a part of their son's life. She says, "We want him to know his birth mother."

"So it's a done deal?" my father asks.

Daphne nods and says that she and Tony have already sorted out most of the paperwork and paid their fees. Then she says, "It's crazy… and all happening so fast… We have so much to do in the next few weeks!"

My mother looks worried as she asks what I am thinking but would never have said aloud, "How do you know Amber won't change her mind and try to get the baby back?"

Daphne's answer is patient but persuasive, as if she herself once had the same concerns but has now come to see the light. She says, "Actually, Mother, birth parents in open adoptions are less likely to change their minds. They are at greater peace with their decision because they can see for themselves that the baby is happy… And one can argue that in some ways, open adoptions are better for the child, too, because he won't have to spend a lifetime wondering about his birth mother."

My mother looks unconvinced. "Will there be any… boundaries?"

Tony says, "This agency is really great, Vera. They help you set up an individualized plan and guidelines for visits, letters, and phone calls. We're working on those details… But it's clear that we want the same thing as Amber. She wants to see him a few times a year—not be over here every day or anything like that. She wants to go on and have her own life."

"Yes, but what will you tell your son?" my mother asks. "Won't this whole thing… confuse him?"

I am' struck by the irony of such an unorthodox mother being so thrown off kilter by an untraditional arrangement. I can tell by Maura's expression that she is thinking the same thing. But Daphne remains patient. She says, "Think about it, Mother. If an aunt or uncle or grandmother is a part of a child's life, is he confused?"

"No—" my mother says.

Tony cuts her off. "Well, those people are blood related, too… But there's no confusion, you know?"

My mother nods.

"Your parents are your parents. Kids know who their parents are… And the whole point of an open adoption is that the birth mother supports that. She chose us. Amber wouldn't want to ruin her own plan by interfering in our son's life."

Daphne finishes by saying, "A child's birth family is a part of who he is… Whether we knew Amber or not, that would be the case. And we want our son to know her. We think this will be best for everyone… I know it might sound weird in theory, but once you meet Amber, you'll see that this is right for everyone involved."

I know what Daphne means about this statement. About how something can feel one way in theory and a very different way when you apply it to your own life and the people who comprise your life. I think of several examples of this phenomenon right here at the table… Maybe in theory my sisters and I—and even my father—should hate my mother, but we don't. We tolerate, even love her, in spite of herself… Maybe in theory, a woman should leave a man who cheats on her. But in Maura's case, this might not be the right answer… Maybe in theory I didn't want children. Maybe I still don't. But as I watch my sister and Tony gaze at each other, I think of what it would feel like to be back with Ben and expecting a baby. Our baby. And for the very first time in my entire life, I actually almost want one.