It’s been seven months since that Christmas.
A lot has shifted, and I want to be realistic about it. Nobody’s life changed overnight. This isn’t one of those stories where the villain gets a dramatic comeuppance and everybody claps.
Susette is still married to Garrett. She still lives in the big colonial in Ridgewood. She still posts pictures of her perfectly staged house online.
But the family members she spent years curating and controlling have started talking to each other directly, without going through her.
Uncle Pete texts me every Sunday. Aunt Viv comes to our house for dinner the first Sunday of every month, and she always brings a pie. Tanya started a group chat with me, Drew, and Marcus. It’s mostly memes and arguments about the Giants.
The connections Susette cut, we rebuilt. Not through her. Around her.
Garrett comes over with Poppy every couple of weeks. He told me, without my asking, that he and Susette are in couples counseling with a therapist in Ridgewood, every Wednesday, at $185 a session. He said the counselor asked Susette why she felt she had to control the guest list. Susette said she just wanted Christmas to be nice.
The counselor apparently pushed back. Susette got upset, and they had to take a break in the middle of the session.
“We’re still going,” Garrett said. “Every Wednesday.”
I told him I was glad. I meant it.
My mom calls every week now. Real calls, not obligation calls. She and Viv go to lunch at a diner in Pompton Lakes every other Thursday. She told me Viv cried the first time. She told me she cried too.
She hasn’t seen Susette since Christmas.
My dad is my dad. He shows up, eats, and is present in his quiet way. But he drove to our house on Father’s Day without Mom having to organize it, which is the Don Brandt equivalent of a grand romantic gesture.
He also called me in March to tell me the new wills had been signed, witnessed, and filed with the lawyer in Wayne. Garrett and I are co-executors. The shore house will go to both of us, half and half, with a clause that says neither of us can sell our half without offering it to the other one first.
“So you two have to talk to each other,” Dad said. “Your mother’s idea.”
“It’s a good idea, Dad.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I married her.”
As for me, business is good. Nadia and I are talking about opening a second kitchen in Morristown. Lenny Kaplan says the numbers work, as long as I stop turning down December bookings.
Caleb lost his first tooth and started reading chapter books. Lily learned to ride a bike and has very strong opinions about which princess is the best.
Our dining room still has the extended table. It seats twenty-six. I’m not taking it down.
We’re hosting Christmas again this year. Nadia’s already planning the menu with me. Uncle Pete called last week to ask if he should bring bourbon again. I told him to bring two bottles. Viv asked if she could bring a pie. I told her to bring whatever she wants.
There’s room for everything at this table.
I’ve thought a lot about what Susette said to Caleb. I only set the table for people who actually belong here.
Here’s what I’ve figured out.
Belonging isn’t something somebody else gets to decide for you. It’s not a calligraphy place card. It’s not a cream invitation with gold lettering. It’s not a seat at a mahogany table in a big house in Ridgewood. It’s not a line in a will that someone else talked your parents into signing.
Belonging is a guy in a three-bedroom ranch who spent five days cooking because he wanted every single person he loves to have a chair.
Belonging is an aunt who walks in with a pie and tears in her eyes because she didn’t think anyone still wanted her there.
Belonging is a seven-year-old in a clip-on tie who finally gets to sit at the table with everyone else, between his dad and his great-uncle, with his name written on a little white card in his mother’s handwriting.
That’s what Christmas looks like now.
And if Susette ever decides she wants to be part of it, there’s a chair for her too.
There’s always a chair.
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.