My sixtieth birthday was approaching.
I had known the date for months, of course.
It wasn't a surprise.
But I hadn't planned anything elaborate.
I didn't want a restaurant celebration.
I didn't want a party hall or expensive decorations.
I didn't even particularly want presents.
What I wanted was to sit around my own dining table with my children.
All six.
I wanted to see their faces without having to arrange separate visits weeks apart.
I wanted to hear them interrupt one another.
I wanted somebody to complain about the food and somebody else to ask for another serving.
I wanted the kind of evening we used to have when they were young.
Perhaps I was asking for something that no longer fit their lives.
At the time, I didn't think so.
I had raised six children almost entirely alone.
There had been years when I worked two jobs because I wanted them to have opportunities.
I had missed sleep, holidays, and plenty of ordinary comforts.
But I had never considered those things debts they needed to repay.
I didn't want repayment.
I wanted company.
There was a difference.
At least, that was how I saw it.
A few days before my birthday, I contacted them.
I didn't want to make the invitation sound like an obligation.
I knew how quickly adult children could become uncomfortable when they thought their mother was asking for too much.
So I kept my message simple.
I asked whether everyone could come home for dinner on my birthday.
I explained that I wanted all six around the same table.
I said that would be enough for me.
I waited for the replies.
One by one, I heard from them.
There were brief acknowledgments.
There were assurances.
There were messages that suggested the evening could work.
I allowed myself to feel excited.
I didn't ask for a detailed schedule.
I didn't want to make it complicated.
I simply began planning.
For the first time in a long while, I had a reason to prepare a proper family dinner.
I went through the kitchen cupboards.
I checked what I already had.
Then I wrote a shopping list.
I thought about the meals each child used to enjoy.
Some of those preferences had changed over the years, but I still remembered them.
A mother remembers strange things.
The foods a child refused when they were seven.
The dish they requested after a difficult day at school.
The dessert they used to sneak into the kitchen to taste before dinner.
I wanted to bring some of those memories back.
I decided to make several dishes rather than one large meal.
Nothing extravagant.
Just enough variety that everyone could find something they liked.
I also planned to bake an apple pie.
It had been a favorite in the family for years.
I always added more cinnamon than most recipes suggested.
My husband used to say he could smell it from outside the house.
That memory crossed my mind while I was making the shopping list.
I paused for a moment.
Then I continued writing.
The past was the past.
This dinner was supposed to be about the children and me.
I bought the ingredients.
I checked the pantry again.
I made sure I had enough flour, sugar, butter, and apples.
I also took out the dishes I had inherited from my mother.
They weren't expensive.
They weren't particularly fashionable.
But they had been part of family occasions for decades.
The plates had a simple design.
I had always handled them carefully.
There were seven places at the table.
One for me.
Six for my children.
I counted them more than once.
Seven.
It seemed important to see the whole arrangement.
I imagined everyone sitting down.
I imagined the conversations overlapping.
I imagined one of the children arriving late and apologizing.
I imagined the others teasing that person.
Ordinary things.
The kind of ordinary things I had once taken for granted.
For two days, I prepared.
I cleaned the house.
I washed the tablecloth.
I polished the dishes.
I checked the dining room chairs to make sure they were steady.
I moved a few things around in the kitchen to create more room.
I even made sure the hallway was clear so nobody would have to step over anything when they came inside.
It may sound excessive.
But I wanted the evening to feel welcoming.
I wanted them to walk through the door and know that I had been looking forward to seeing them.
The apple pie was one of the last things I prepared.
I peeled the apples and sliced them carefully.
The cinnamon filled the kitchen.
For a moment, I could almost hear the children arguing over who would get the largest piece.
I smiled to myself.
It was a small thing.
But I was happy.
I had not felt that particular kind of happiness in quite some time.
The day before my birthday, I looked at the dining room again.
The chairs were arranged.
The dishes were ready.
The table was clean.
I imagined the six children sitting there, perhaps talking about their work or their own families.
I wondered whether the grandchildren would come too.
I hadn't made that part of the request.
I didn't want the evening to become difficult to arrange.
I was already grateful that my six children might be together.
I went to bed thinking about what time everyone would arrive.
The following morning, I woke earlier than usual.
I made myself breakfast.
I checked the kitchen.
Then I started preparing the meal.
I didn't rush.
I had planned enough time to finish everything without becoming overwhelmed.
Still, I kept checking the clock.
There was something almost embarrassing about how excited I was.
I was sixty years old.
I had worked through difficult years.
I had raised six children.
I had managed a household after a marriage ended in a way I had never expected.
And there I was, smiling because I thought my children were coming home for dinner.
I didn't see anything wrong with that.
A few hours later, I arranged the dining table.
I placed the plates carefully.
Then the cutlery.
Then the glasses.
I adjusted one chair because it wasn't quite straight.
I stepped back.
Something about the room made me feel that everything was finally in its proper place.
I went into the kitchen and checked the food.
I adjusted the seasoning.
I checked the oven.
I made sure the pie was cooling safely.
Then I returned to the dining room.
Seven places.
I ran my hand over the tablecloth.
I thought about my mother.
She had taught me that feeding people was one way of showing love.
She used to say that a good meal didn't need to be expensive.
It needed to be prepared with care.
I had carried that lesson through my entire life.
Even when I had little money, I tried to make our meals feel like something worth gathering around.
I hoped my children remembered that.
I hoped they remembered more than the difficult parts of growing up.
I hoped they remembered the birthdays.
The cakes.
The dinners.
The way I tried to make every child feel seen.
At about four o'clock, the house was ready.
The food was nearly finished.
The kitchen was clean enough.
The table was waiting.
I changed my clothes and checked my appearance in the hallway mirror.
Nothing special.
Just something comfortable and suitable for dinner with my family.
I brushed my hair.
I put on a little perfume.
Then I stood near the front window.
The driveway was empty.
That didn't concern me.
It was still early.
I went back to the kitchen.
I checked the oven again.
I adjusted the napkins.
I looked at the clock.
Then I looked at the front window.
I told myself not to become ridiculous.
They had lives.
They would arrive when they could.
But I had already started imagining the sound of the first car pulling into the driveway.
I wanted to hear the door close.
I wanted footsteps on the porch.
I wanted somebody calling my name before I had even opened the door.
It had been a long time since all six had been in the same room.
I wanted to enjoy every minute.
At five o'clock, I decided to send a message to the family group.
I stood in the kitchen with my phone in one hand.
I typed something cheerful.
I told them everything was prepared.
I reminded them to travel safely.
I ended by telling them I loved them.
Then I sent it.
The message appeared in the conversation.
I watched the screen.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
I put the phone down.
I picked it up again.
Still nothing.
I told myself they were probably driving.
Perhaps they were getting ready.
Perhaps they had seen the message and would answer later.
I didn't want to start the evening by worrying.
So I turned back to the food.
There was still time.
There was always time.
Or so I thought.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: By Six O’clock I Had Started Checking My Phone Every Few Minutes, and the Empty Driveway Was Becoming Harder to Explain
I Had Spent My Whole Life Making Sure My Children Never Felt Alone, Yet That Evening I Could Not Get One of Them to Come Home
Part 2 of 4
