I did exactly what I threatened to do.

I stood at the head of my own Christmas table in Westerville, Ohio, with the front door open behind me, cold air pushing into the hallway, and told every guest in the room that dinner was over.

Nobody moved at first.

They just stared at me, then at the brown leather folder beside the turkey, then back at Michael, who still had one hand on the back of the chair he had taken from me like he was trying to prove the room still belonged to him.

Jenny stood near the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, pale and silent, but she did not look away.

Amanda looked like someone had yanked a floorboard out from under her.

Jason, the man Michael had wanted in my seat, slowly lowered the wineglass in his hand and said the one thing that split the performance wide open.

‘You told us this was your house.’

Michael didn’t answer him.