Chapter 6 - DAD INVITED TWENTY RELATIVES TO A BIRTHDAY FEAST
Saturday arrived.
Dad's sixty-fifth birthday.
At 8:00 a.m., the refrigerator contained:
Half a gallon of milk.
Eggs.
Mustard.
Leftover chicken.
Three beers.
Vegetables Mom had purchased.
No prime rib.
No salmon.
No charcuterie.
No cakes.
Dad opened the refrigerator three times as if meat might materialize through persistence.
“Where's the order?”
I was drinking coffee.
“What order?”
“The butcher.”
“Canceled.”
His face went white.
“You canceled it?”
“Eleven days ago.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I told Mom.”
“You didn't tell me.”
“You never asked until three days ago.”
“Twenty-two people are coming!”
“Yes.”
“At four!”
“I know.”
“What are we supposed to serve?”
I glanced at the clock.
“You have eight hours.”
He stared at me.
Then:
“You planned this.”
“No.”
“You deliberately planned to embarrass me.”
“I stopped paying.”
“Same thing!”
That sentence was important.
To Dad, my refusal to fund his performance was equivalent to sabotaging it.
Mom entered.
“Thomas, we'll order catering.”
He grabbed his phone.
Three restaurants.
Fully booked.
A barbecue place could deliver trays.
$780.
Dad nearly dropped the phone.
“For barbecue?”
Mom said:
“Twenty-two people.”
He looked at me.
I didn't react.
Next:
Italian catering.
$1,050.
Then a grocery deli.
Cheaper.
But limited notice.
Dad became frantic.
“Lauren, just use your butcher order. Call them.”
“It's gone.”
“Then reorder!”
“I’m not paying.”
“I'll pay you back.”
“When?”
“Don't start.”
“That's not an answer.”
His voice rose.
“You have money!”
There it was.
I answered quietly:
“Yes.”
“And you're going to watch your father be humiliated on his birthday?”
“No.”
“What do you call this?”
“A budget.”
Mom covered her mouth.
I suspected she was hiding a smile.
Dad stormed out.
He returned ninety minutes later with groceries.
Receipts totaled almost $600.
Not luxurious.
Enough.
Chicken.
Pasta.
Salad ingredients.
Bread.
Two supermarket cakes.
Beer.
Wine.
Frozen appetizers.
He dropped the bags onto the counter.
“There. Happy?”
“Why would your grocery purchase make me happy or unhappy?”
He glared.
Then realized:
He couldn't cook for twenty-two people.
Mom could.
But she had church responsibilities until one.
Dad looked at me.
I waited.
“Can you at least help cook?”
“No.”
His mouth fell open.
“Why?”
“I’m a guest.”
“Lauren.”
“You said you wanted me to learn responsibility.”
“This is insane.”
“No. This is exactly what you requested.”
At four, cars arrived.
Uncle Raymond.
Aunt Susan.
Cousins.
Neighbors.
Grandma's sister.
Family friends.
Everyone carried gifts.
Everyone expected the elaborate feast Dad had described.
Instead, Dad was sweating over two pans of baked chicken while Mom tried to rescue overcooked pasta.
I arrived downstairs at 4:05.
Wearing a blue dress.
Holding a gift.
Dad stared.
“You got dressed?”
“It's a birthday party.”
Aunt Susan hugged me.
“Where's the prime rib?”
Dad froze.
I smiled.
“You'll have to ask the host.”
Susan laughed.
Dad did not.
Then Uncle Raymond clapped Dad on the shoulder.
“Sixty-five! Retirement treating you well. Still supporting this one?”
He pointed jokingly at me.
Dad's face changed.
There it was.
The lie.
Public.
Again.
Three weeks after everything.
Dad could have corrected him.
He had the opportunity.
Instead, he smiled.
“Well, you know kids.”
Something inside me closed.
I put my gift down.
Then reached into my handbag.
Not for a stack of receipts.
Not to scream.
Not to humiliate him with private financial details.
For my phone.
Because if Dad wanted the story told publicly—
May you like
I would give everyone exactly sixty seconds of truth.
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