Family dinner. We used to have them every night, back when I was everything to my parents. Back when my parents were everything to me. We would sit around the table telling each other about our days while enjoying something prepared with southern love. Mom would take pleasure in watching Father and myself clean our plates before something sweet was served to part with.

Those days were gone. My father often worked too late to eat with the rest of us, and I would take a plate up to my room. Not even the meal itself kept its charm as Mother gave up on learning new recipes and found convenience store freezers offered dinners that took little more than five minutes to set at the table. I couldn't remember the last cobbler or pie I savored. My birthday cake, the last of its remnants, was the sweetest idol I could imagine.

But that night was an anomaly. The house was alive with the tantalizing wafts of mother's undone retirement. What was it about that Sunday night that inspired a meal benefiting the nostalgic memories they conjured?

Meatloaf, greens, three-cheese macaroni, and garlic butter smashed potatoes.

As Shawn and I made our way into the kitchen, mother had only then finished setting plates. My cousin took a seat at the round wooden dining room table while I prepared to take my meal to go.

"Marcus," Mother said, and I knew it would have been venomous to leave.

Reluctantly I took my seat next to Shawn. Father entered the room shortly after, and as if we had gone back in time, the night played as it might have in a sitcom. We broke bread together.

Shawn ate like a ravenous beast going through plate after plate of helpings before I had downed my first. I couldn't blame him; Mom was a cook amongst the angels when she wanted. Still, my cousin might have been satisfied sooner had more of his food made the journey from plate to mouth rather than plate to table or plate to shirt. Had he been neglected meals during his time with grandma?

Mother wasn't bothered, and Dad was too tired to fight with anyone. I perhaps was too tired. I was annoyed.

Was my cousin the reason we were treated that night? It made no difference. As long as he kept his mouth shut, I suppose I was willing to allow the mutt to have a seat at the table.