The antiques in the glass cabinet smile down on us. I take a long gulp of iced tea and slouch back against my seat, in a sea of mismatched dining chairs gathered too closely around a small table. Some of them are empty, but the absence goes unnoticed.

My mother gabs about why we’re better off without “them,” while my uncles pinch each other and loudly battle over who will take “their” spots as my godparents. One has my favorite sort of car, the other has a new puppy, twenty dollars with my name on it, babies I can play with. Each determined to ignore empty chairs, missed calls.
The picture frame in front of me is eternally tilted from children and adults alike squeezing past. The jewelry I gave Grandma Gaga in second grade jingles on her wrist as she cuts slices of coffee cake, carefully chosen from a bakery in the city. Charlie’s little body nearly topples out of his chair as he tilts his iPad with the movement of his game. His twin lures the dog with uneaten vegetables held under the table. Claire braids my hair while her own falls in her eyes, quick fingers, paint stained jeans.