Our son, Oliver, had just turned six that spring. It would be his first year joining the tradition. He was thrilled at the thought of being included with his older cousins. I was nervous, of course.

He was still so young, still so attached to me, but Matthew reassured me that his mother had hosted this gathering for over a decade without issue. “She knows how to handle kids,” he said. “And besides, it’ll be good for Oliver to be around his cousins. He’ll come home with stories, just like I did.”

I wanted to believe that. So, when the invitation came, I said yes. I packed Oliver’s favorite pajamas, his stuffed dinosaur he couldn’t sleep without, and a stack of bedtime storybooks. I kissed him goodbye, whispered a reminder that he could always call me if he needed, and watched as he climbed into his grandmother’s SUV, his small hand waving out the window until they turned the corner.