For almost a year, my daughter-in-law’s family treated my house in Columbus, Ohio, like their private clubhouse.

In late June, the aroma of garlic-rubbed prime rib, roasted rosemary potatoes, and fresh sourdough bread drifted from my kitchen into the sunlit dining room.

The dining room table—the very table where Denise had left my butchered brisket eight months earlier—was set with my finest linen, Arthur’s polished silver spoons, and crystal water goblets.

Ethan was on the back patio, manning the grill with a wide grin, laughing as the smoke drifted into the clear blue summer sky. Natalie was at the kitchen island, tossing an arugula and strawberry salad in a large wooden bowl.

"Everything looks incredible, Linda," Natalie said, leaning over to taste a drop of the balsamic reduction. "Are you sure you don't want me to carve the roast?"

"Not on your life," I laughed, tying my floral apron tighter around my waist. "Carving is my domain."

Ethan came in through the sliding screen door, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. He walked over to the liquor cabinet, opened the polished glass door, and pulled out a brand-new, unopened bottle of rare reserve bourbon.

It wasn't Arthur’s retired bottle. That bottle could never be replaced. But Ethan had spent four months tracking down a twin vintage from the same distillery and year, presenting it to me on Mother’s Day with an inscription on the wooden box: *“For Mom. Kept safe forever.”*

"Should we open it today?" Ethan asked, holding up the amber bottle with a smile.