My seven-year-old said his steak smelled like medicine. My sister-in-law Megan pressed the plate under his fork: "Eat it, or you and your father leave this table," but my wife screamed and I saved the steak. When the vet toxicology report said the brown-bottle residue matched the poison on my son's steak, Megan went pale.

November rolled around again with crisp autumn air, amber leaves dancing across the lawns of Cedar Rapids, and the familiar, comforting scent of woodsmoke drifting through the neighborhoods.

This year, Thanksgiving was at our house.

The dining table was stretched to its absolute limit, loaded down with roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, cranberry sauce, and three different kinds of homemade pie. The room was filled with the exact same loud, chaotic noise that had always defined my family—cousins laughing, forks clinking against china, and Chris telling a terrible joke that made everyone groan and laugh at the same time.

Patricia sat at the head of the table, looking radiant in a soft blue sweater, her laughter ringing out clear and bright. Across from her, Lauren was pouring sparkling cider into Ethan’s glass, smiling as our son eagerly reached for a giant slice of turkey breast.

Underneath the table, Buddy lay stretched out across our feet, his tail giving a lazy thump against the hardwood floor whenever someone dropped a stray piece of bread.

I stood up, holding my glass high, and tapped my fork gently against the rim. The table quieted down, twenty pairs of eyes turning toward me with warmth and affection.

"I just want to say," I began, looking around the table at my mother, my brother, my wife, and my son, "how grateful I am. We've been through a lot over the past year. We've seen the worst of people, but more importantly, we've seen the best of each other. Here's to family, to truth, and to many more years of peace at this table."

"Hear, hear!" Chris shouted, raising his glass high.