The Guest House — that grand tree house masquerading as proper lodging — is bursting at the seams. Every child has returned, dragging trunks, laundry, and appetites in tow. The kitchen hums like a beehive, perpetually messy in the most joyful way, as one meal slides straight into preparations for the next.

The family room sofa, long ago surrendered, is covered in a tangle of people and dogs, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the occasional elbow into a cushion. Fires roar in every hearth; stoking them has become a competitive sport. The coffee maker, poor creature, hasn’t had a moment’s rest since the first car pulled up the drive.

Down the hall, the Whisky Room (a room not yet officially christened, but already infamous) resounds with the cheerful clink of crystal stoppers. A wee dram is poured, another story told, and the conversation quickens like sparks in the grate.

Thanksgiving here is not a moment of polite gratitude — it is a glorious, raucous return. A table stretched to its limits, laden with mismatched silver and hand-stitched linens, is where the noise settles just long enough for candles to be lit and blessings muttered. Then it all erupts again, as only family can do.