My in-laws kept a bedroom for every grandchild except mine "because space." When my daughter asked why she sleeps on the couch, I booked us a hotel mid-dinner and ended twelve years of visits on the spot. This year the invitation came with an apology.

In late November, as Thanksgiving approached once again, the question of holiday plans naturally resurfaced.

This time, there were no frantic texts, no passive-aggressive emails, and no unspoken pressure.

On a cool Sunday afternoon, Richard and Gail drove to Camp Hill for dinner. Over dessert, Richard set his fork down and looked across the table at Lauren and me.

"We’d like to host Thanksgiving again this year," Rich said directly, his tone entirely free of demand. "The work on the second floor is completely finished. There are three identical guest suites upstairs, plus the main guest room downstairs. Janine’s family is taking the east wing, Derek’s family is taking the west wing, and the central suite—the largest one with the quiet reading nook—is held for you three."

He paused, looking at Norah, who was happily eating apple pie.

"If you prefer to stay at a hotel, we will pay for the rooms," Rich added quickly. "If you prefer to host here, we will bring the food. The decision is entirely yours, with no hard feelings whatsoever."

Lauren looked at me, her eyes seeking my input.

I looked at Norah. "What do you think, bug? Do you want to spend Thanksgiving at the farmhouse this year?"

Norah stopped chewing, thinking it over with the serious concentration of a miniature judge.

"Does the central suite have stars on the ceiling?" she asked Gail.

Gail smiled—a warm, genuine, slightly sheepish smile. "No, sweetie. But Grandpa and I brought something for you to put up yourself if you want."

Gail reached into her purse and pulled out a small box filled with glow-in-the-dark stars, alongside a brass plate engraved with the words: Norah’s Suite - Permanent & Equal.