My son sat at my kitchen table that October and told me Thanksgiving would be “just my wife’s family.” I was 71, widowed, and had spent six years picking up his children from school three afternoons a week. I tried to accept that I wasn’t included. But soon my daughter-in-law was telling me to “rest up,” my granddaughter was talking about a surprise, and my son wanted a spare key to my house. None of them would explain what was being planned. I had spent my working life noticing patterns, and this one was beginning to worry me.

“The best one I can find.”

On Thursday the 20th, at 6:15, Todd took the kids and said, “See you whenever, Mom.”

He didn’t mention my email.

He never did.

After Todd’s taillights disappeared that Thursday night, I went out to the garage with a flashlight and the instruction booklet for the keypad, which Russell had kept in a labeled envelope because, of course, he had.

I changed the code from 1117 to 2209.

September 22nd, 1989.

That’s the day the letter came saying I’d passed my final actuarial exam.

I opened it standing at the mailbox and screamed so loud the neighbor’s dog started howling.

Russell came running out of the house in one shoe.

Our anniversary had been a good code for a long time, but other people had started using it.

I set the porch light on a timer, 5:30 to 11:00 every night, so the house wouldn’t look abandoned.

I stopped the newspaper.

Then I walked two doors down and gave Maxine a printed copy of my itinerary and the ship’s emergency number.

“If Todd asks,” I said, “tell him I’m traveling and I’m fine. That’s all. That’s all he needs.”

Friday, I flew from Columbus to Orlando.

Saturday morning, November 22nd, a shuttle took me to Port Canaveral, and there she was.

The Seabright Serenade.

White as a wedding dress, 14 decks high, with music already playing on the top deck.

I put on the hat at the bottom of the gangway.

The brim caught the wind and tugged at me like it wanted to go first.

Halfway up, I stopped, took out my phone, and turned it off.

I held the button down until the screen went black.

Then I took it to my cabin and locked it in the little safe in the closet with my passport.

It was the first time in 30 years that nobody in the world could reach me.

At four o’clock, the ship pulled away from the dock.

Nobody in Ohio noticed.

Not yet.

I’d like to tell you I spent that week thinking deep thoughts.

Mostly, I slept.

Monday was Cozumel, and I swam in water so clear I could see my own toes, which, at my age, is a pleasant reunion.

Tuesday was Roatán, where a man sold me a carved wooden turtle for eight dollars and gave me a second one free because he said turtles shouldn’t travel alone.

Wednesday was Costa Maya, and I found the shell.

Pink inside, smooth as a teacup.

I wrapped it in a sock for Elsie.

On the top deck, the wind kept flipping my brim up like a gate.

A retired mail carrier from Tampa named Lamar told me it was the best hat on the ship.

Then came Thursday.

Thanksgiving.

A full day at sea with nothing but blue in every direction.

That night, at the late seating, 8:30, the main dining room had a Thanksgiving menu.

You could choose roast turkey with all the trimmings or a broiled lobster tail with drawn butter.

I chose the lobster.

Of course I chose the lobster.

I was seated at a round table with Lamar and two sisters from Duluth, Doris and Edna, who’d been cruising together every Thanksgiving since their husbands died.

Doris asked me the question everyone asks.

“So, where’s your family tonight, Faith?”

I cracked the shell and took my time.

“Thanksgiving is just my wife’s family,” I said. “Well, my son’s wife’s family. So tonight, I’m just me.”

Edna raised her glass.

“To just me.”

We all clinked glasses.

The butter was warm.

The ocean outside the window was black and endless.

I thought about Russell.

I did not think about the Picketts much.

The ship kept Eastern Time all week.

And right about then, in Ohio, my son was standing on my porch.

I wasn’t there for what happened next.

I’ve pieced it together since, from Maxine, from Elsie, and from the timestamps on 63 missed calls.

Thanksgiving dinner at Todd and Brandy’s house started at three.

Brandy hosted this year so that Jolene could, in her words, finally sit down.

By 8:15, the pie was half gone, and the suitcases were in the hallway.

The Picketts’ flight to Cancún left Columbus at 6:05 the next morning.

They loaded the children into two cars.

Brandy and Todd took Elsie, Archie, and little Bodie.

Clint and his wife Stacy followed in the minivan with the twins.

Jolene and Dell brought up the rear in the red truck.

At 8:40 p.m., they pulled into my driveway.

The porch light was on, right on schedule.

Everything else was dark.

Todd walked up to the garage keypad and punched in 1117.

The little light blinked red.

He tried again.

Red.

A third time.

Red.

The children stood on my porch with their backpacks and pillows, five of them in a row under the light, just the way Brandy’s note had pictured it.

The kids were on my porch.

There was just no one there to say no.

Brandy called my phone.

Straight to voicemail.

Todd called.

Voicemail.

They rang the doorbell, knocked, and called again.

At 9:05, Jolene decided what was happening.

“She’s hiding at one of her church friends’ houses,” she announced. “She’s doing this to punish us.”

So at 9:20, they split up and went looking for me.

Dell drove to the pastor’s house.

Clint drove past the library and the grocery store.

Todd and Brandy drove to the homes of two women from my book club.

Jolene stayed on my street and went door to door.

And at 9:40, she pounded on Maxine’s front door two houses down so hard the wreath fell off.

“Tell her five babies are standing on her porch!”

Maxine, in her bathrobe, said exactly what I’d asked her to say.

“She’s traveling. She’s fine.”

Then she closed the door.

By about 10:15, they had all regrouped at the Peyton Diner, with five tired children eating pancakes at 10:30 at night.