The First Birthday They Skipped

The pen felt ridiculous in my hand, too fancy for what I was doing. A silver ballpoint my mother had given me when I got my first apartment, back when she still believed I would need nice things for a nice life. I had been holding it for twenty minutes, staring at the legal pad on the kitchen counter while the baby monitor crackled with Nora's breathing. Forty-three names. That was how many relatives my mother had on her side. I had narrowed it down to twenty-eight who might reasonably make the drive or the flight to Juniper Bay for a first birthday party. That was three weeks ago. Now there were six. I drew a line through the latest one. Aunt Pauline. Her text had come in at 7:14 that morning, before I had even poured my coffee. Aunt Pauline: sweetie we just cant make it that weekend. the drive is 6 hours and ron has his back thing. give nora a kiss from us!! Six hours. Ron's back had been fine at my cousin Denise's wedding in May, when he spent the entire reception doing the Electric Slide and then carried three chairs back to the pavilion by himself. I did not write that down. I wrote nothing down except the line through her name. My husband Daniel came in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. He had been out there since six, reorganizing shelves that did not need reorganizing, which was what he did when he was upset and pretending not to be. "How many now?" he asked. "Six." He stopped wiping his hands. "Six. Out of twenty-eight." "I invited thirty-one. I just thought twenty-eight would actually consider it." "Six," he said again, like the number might change if he repeated it. I capped the pen and set it down. "It's fine." "It is not fine, Elena. It is the opposite of fine. We reserved a room for forty people. We paid a deposit on forty people." "I know what we paid." "Your mother's whole side of the family. Your mother's entire side." I picked up my coffee, which had gone cold while I was making my list. "People have lives, Daniel. It's a long trip for most of them. It's January. It's cold. Kids have school." "It's a Saturday." "Kids have Saturday things." He stared at me the way he did when he thought I was being deliberately dense. I was not being dense. I was being precise. I had spent three weeks being precise, calling each person, writing down each excuse, and now I could see the pattern clearly, which was something Daniel could not see because Daniel had a family that showed up. His mother had flown in from Tucson for the party. His sister was driving up from San Jose with her twins. His aunt, who was seventy-eight and used a walker, had already booked a hotel because she did not want to be a burden, even though we had a guest room. "That's the thing," I said. "Your side is coming." "My side is coming because my side is not a bunch of—" "Daniel." He stopped. He knew that tone. I had used it maybe four times in our six years together, and each time it meant that if he finished his sentence, he would regret it. "They're not bad people," I said. "They're just people who don't prioritize us. That's different from being bad." "It's not that different." "It's a little different." He threw the rag onto the counter. "I don't understand you. I really don't. If my family did this, I would be on the phone right now, giving them a piece of my mind." "Which would accomplish what, exactly?" "At least they'd know I was angry." "And then they'd come out of guilt, and they'd sit in the corner all night with their arms crossed, and we'd spend the whole party managing their feelings. No, thank you." He opened his mouth, closed it, and then did the thing where he looked at the ceiling like the answer might be written there. "So what do we do? Cancel?" "No." "Elena—" "We keep the party. We just don't need forty seats." I picked up my phone and called the restaurant. The woman who answered was named Priya, and she had been the one who took my original reservation three weeks ago. I could hear her tapping on a keyboard in the background. "Juniper Bay Grille, this is Priya." "Hi, Priya. This is Elena Carter. I have a reservation for January eighteenth, private room, forty people." "Let me pull that up. Yes, I see it. What can I do for you?" "I need to reduce it to fourteen." There was a pause. "Fourteen." "Yes." "Okay. That's... let me see. That's a significant change. I'll need to check with my manager about the deposit." "I understand. I know the deposit was based on the original headcount." "It was. Let me see what I can do. Can I put you on a brief hold?" "Of course." I waited. Daniel had left the kitchen. I could hear him in the living room, talking to Nora in the low, silly voice he used when he thought no one was listening. She was ten months old and had just learned to clap, and every time she did it, he acted like she had solved world hunger. Priya came back. "Okay, so my manager says we can apply the deposit to the new headcount and refund the difference. It'll take about five business days." "That's more than fair. Thank you." "Of course. And I'm sorry, if it helps. I know it's hard when plans change." "It's fine," I said. "Really. It's better this way." I hung up and stood in the kitchen for a long moment. The baby monitor crackled with Nora's laughter. Daniel was making her clap again, probably. I looked at my list. Six names. Then I tore off the top sheet of the legal pad and folded it in half, and then in half again, and then again, until it was small enough to fit in the back of my wallet, where I kept receipts I intended to deal with later and never did. I did not tell Daniel about the list. I did not tell him that I had written down every single excuse, in order, with dates and times, so that I could remember exactly who had said what. I did not tell him that I had been keeping it because some part of me, the part that had grown up in a house where favors were currency and family was obligation, knew that this would not be the end of it. I just put the list in my wallet and went to clap for Nora. The party was on a Saturday. Fourteen people in a room that could have held forty. The three empty tables along the back wall had been pushed together and covered with a linen cloth, and the staff had put a single vase of flowers on them so they would not look so empty. My mother-in-law, Carol, arrived first. She was wearing a pale blue dress and carrying a gift bag that was bigger than Nora. She hugged me tight and then held me at arm's length. "You look beautiful," she said. "Tired, but beautiful." "I'm always tired." "That's motherhood. Where's my granddaughter?" "In the back with Daniel. She's wearing the dress you sent." "The one with the smocking?" "The one with the smocking. She loves it. She keeps grabbing the collar." Carol beamed and went to find them. I stood at the entrance, watching the door, because that was what you did at a party. You watched the door. My cousin Marcus arrived next with his wife and their two boys. Marcus was the only one from my mother's side who had said yes. He lived in Portland, which was a four-hour drive, and he had taken the day off work, and his wife had made a cake even though I told her not to. "I know you said not to," she said, handing me a carrier. "But it's Nora's first birthday. She needs a cake from family." "Thank you, Lena." "Don't thank me. Thank Marcus. He's the one who insisted." Marcus was already across the room, shaking Daniel's hand and then immediately bending down to see Nora. He had a way with kids that made me sad for reasons I did not want to examine. The rest of the guests were Daniel's people. His sister Maya arrived with her twins, who were five and immediately ran to the back of the room to slide on the floor. His aunt Judith, with the walker, who I insisted sit in the chair closest to the cake. His friend from work, Kevin, and Kevin's wife, who I had met twice and liked well enough. Fourteen people. It was a good party. Nora clapped through the whole thing. When we brought out the cake from the kitchen, she stared at the candle like it was the most fascinating thing she had ever seen, and when Daniel leaned down to help her blow it out, she grabbed his nose. Everyone laughed. I laughed too. I smiled when Carol gave a toast and said something about how proud she was of the family Daniel and I were building. I smiled when Maya took a hundred photos and posted them. I smiled when Kevin's wife, whose name was Beth, said, "I can't believe more of your family couldn't make it. That's so sad." "We understand," I said. "It's a long trip for them." "That's very gracious of you." "I try." I did not say what I was thinking. I did not say that I had called every single one of them, that I had listened to every excuse, that I had written them all down. I did not say that my uncle Robert had said, "Too far," even though he drove to Reno twice a year for a bowling tournament. I did not say that my aunt Sofia had said, "No time," even though she had posted on social media that same weekend about a spa day. I did not say that my cousin David, who I had helped through his divorce two years ago, who had called me crying at two in the morning and I had stayed on the phone with him until sunrise, had said, "Work's crazy," and then sent a text the next day asking if I could recommend a good realtor in my area because he was thinking about moving. I did not say any of it. I just smiled and cut cake and watched my daughter clap. When the party ended, Daniel and I stood in the parking lot, loading gifts into the trunk. The night was cold and clear, and the moon was almost full. "See?" I said. "It was fine." He looked at me. "You're really okay." "I'm really okay." "You're not just saying that." "I'm not just saying that." He kissed my forehead. "I love you." "I love you too." We drove home with Nora asleep in her car seat and the radio low. I watched the streetlights pass and thought about the list in my wallet, and about what it meant that I had kept it. Six months, I thought. Give it six months. I did not know then how right I would be.