Every Thanksgiving, as kitchens fill with the scent of roasting turkeys and cornbread cooling on the counter, I’m reminded that the dining room table has always been more than a place to eat. It’s where we learn who we are — where gratitude takes root and love takes shape. In my family, our table didn’t just serve meals; it built our home.

For as long as I can remember, Thanksgiving meant gathering in my parents’ house on Munroe Street. I can still see myself as a kindergartener, while my father, a World War II Navy veteran, and my mother, the Martha Stewart of Munroe Street, welcomed family, friends, and neighbors.

My mother always wore a fancy apron and kept a dishtowel draped over her shoulder. She was the last to sit — only when everyone else had what they needed. The china gleamed,

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