Three years ago when my mother turned fifty, she threw herself a birthday party as a “celebration of life” and each year since then, she’d repeated the process. Her parties were small, intimate gatherings of family and friends who would have dinner, drinks, and cake and ice cream at her house, usually in the backyard (weather permitting). So when her fifty-third birthday rolled around in late May, it was party time again. But this year’s festivities were slightly different because Paul was there. She’d never brought her boyfriend (if she was seeing someone) to her previous parties, so his presence was kind of a big deal. Of course I was there along with Carmen and her parents, other assorted relatives, my mother’s friends, and some people from her job. In past years, I hung out with Carmen
