I was standing at Gate B12 in Seattle, juggling a paper coffee cup and my daughter’s pink backpack, when my mother called and, without any greeting, said, “Claire, don’t get on that plane. We think it’s better if you skip Thanksgiving this year. Sophie is embarrassing, and Natalie needs one drama-free day.”For a moment, I genuinely thought I had heard her wrong. Around us, people were lining up by boarding group, pulling rolling suitcases, putting on headphones, arguing about overhead bin space. My six-year-old, Sophie, sat on the floor in her small denim jacket, coloring a turkey on the back of a kids’ menu from the airport café. She looked up at my face before I could reply. Children always sense when the atmosphere shifts.What do you mean embarrassing?” I asked.My mother lowered her voice, the way she did when she wanted to say something unkind while pretending it was reasonable. “She asks inappropriate questions. She talks too loudly. Last Easter she asked Natalie in front of everyone why she had a new boyfriend every year. Your sister is hosting Eric’s parents today. We are not doing a repeat of that scene.”

Sophie wasn’t rude. She was six. She was bright, literal, and curious in the way children are before adults teach them which truths are socially acceptable and which truths get them punished. At Easter she had also asked my father why he got angry whenever someone touched Grandma Evelyn’s china cabinet, and why Aunt Natalie cried in the laundry room after two glasses of wine. Apparently honesty was only charming when it came from adults who edited themselves.“We’re already at the airport,” I said. “I spent nine hundred dollars on these tickets.”My mother sighed as if I were being deliberately difficult. “Then eat the cost. Go somewhere else. Natalie deserves one peaceful holiday.”