They grew into decent adults.
Every Sunday became every other Sunday.
At least, I thought they had.
For years, Sunday dinner stayed sacred.
Food & Drink
Then came spouses, grandchildren, jobs, and sports.
Every Sunday became every other Sunday.
Then once a month.
Then, “We’ll try next week, Dad.”
Six weeks before my seventy-fifth birthday, I sent invitations to all seven.
I tried not to complain.
Birthdays & Name Days
You spend twenty years teaching children not to need you, then one day you’re hurt because they succeed.
Six weeks before my seventy-fifth birthday, I sent invitations to all seven.
Michael called when his arrived.
“Is this an order?”
“Yes.”
Child Care
Every one of them promised.
“Then I guess we have no choice.”
“Bring the kids.”
“I will.”
Every one of them promised.
I bought too much food, cleaned the house twice, and dragged extra chairs from the basement.
I even bought candles because the grandchildren always helped me blow them out.
“Work is a nightmare. I’ll come tomorrow.”
Then my birthday came.
At ten, Michael called.
“Happy birthday, Dad.”
There was a pause.
I knew.
“Work is a nightmare. I’ll come tomorrow.”
At noon, Lisa called.
“Sure.”
At noon, Lisa called.
“The boys have a game.”
“I thought it was Saturday.”
“They moved it.”
“Of course.”
Then the rest cancelled as well.
At two, Rachel called about a salon appointment she couldn’t move.
Then the rest cancelled as well.
Kevin had car trouble.
Emily’s youngest had a fever.
James’s wife wasn’t feeling well.
I had enough roast beef to feed a church.
Beef
Ryan left a voicemail saying something had come up with work.
By seven, fourteen plates sat around my dining table.
I had enough roast beef to feed a church.
