Our family needed to come together more than ever that fall. I decided to have Thanksgiving at my house. I hadn’t fixed a formal dinner in months, and I had a full set of white stoneware in my china cabinet just begging to be used: plates, salad plates, cups and saucers, creamer, sugar bowl, butter dish—the works. A week in advance, I made out my grocery list, including ingredients for my special fruit punch. It had been my granddaughter’s favorite. Amanda, 20 years old, had lost her life in a car accident in the spring. She had visited
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