After eleven open houses and one very long spreadsheet, cousin Sofia and her husband Ryan are homeowners. The house has a porch, a big kitchen and a spare room already known as "Grandma's room."

Ryan started a new job this fall too, so they celebrated twice: pizza on the empty living room floor, then a wreath on their very own front door.

Sam came home from his first semester with one duffel bag and one very full laundry bag, and was met at the door by Mom and a beagle who had clearly been counting the days.

Within an hour he had eaten six cookies and asked whether the washing machine "still works the same." It does. The food at college, he reports, is "not like home." Mom considers this a compliment.

Every Sunday at six we call Grandma and Grandpa on the tablet. Lily always waves first. I show them my drawings and my block towers, and Grandpa tells the same joke about the penguin.

Grandma says it is the best part of her week. I think it is the best part of ours too, but don't tell Lily I said that.

Pepper the cat has moved onto the tree skirt for the season and will not discuss it. Ornaments on the bottom branch are now considered hers, and the one silver ball she has already batted under the couch is "on loan."

She tolerates Biscuit. She tolerates the new baby. She does not tolerate the vacuum, and she would like everyone to know that the warm spot by the tree lights was hers first.