“Ask Lena,” my mother’s voice floated back, already carrying that particular edge of impatience she wore like perfume. “She organized everything. She always does.”
They filed into the dining room, and there was that moment—that suspended half-second of silence—when people first see a table laden with food. I held my breath without meaning to, waiting.
My mother entered first. She looked impeccable as always, her makeup applied with the precision of someone who’d been doing it for forty years, her hair blown out smooth and shining, wearing the good earrings my father had bought her after forgetting three anniversaries in a row. She was the kind of woman who believed presentation was everything, that looking polished was the same as being polished.
Her eyes swept across the table, taking in the candles and the serving dishes and the carefully arranged food. I watched her face for the reaction I’d been hoping for—maybe surprise, or appreciation, or even just a simple acknowledgment of effort.
Instead, her nose wrinkled slightly, the way it did when she smelled something off.
“Oh,” she said, in that particular tone that managed to sound like disappointment wearing a pleasant mask. “Well. We probably should have just ordered takeout. At least then it would’ve been edible.”
The words landed on the table like grease splatter, visible and impossible to ignore.
My father made a sound that was almost a laugh, caught himself, then cleared his throat awkwardly. My brother Mark snorted quietly and shook his head in a way that said, “Here we go again,” as if this were a familiar pattern. Aunt Carla gave one of those uncomfortable laughs people make when they’re not sure whether it’s ruder to laugh or not to laugh.
I stood there, my hands still slightly damp from washing them, and felt the words settle into my chest. We should have just ordered takeout. At least then it would’ve been edible.
I looked at the food I’d spent six hours preparing. The lasagna I’d layered so carefully, ensuring each noodle was perfectly placed. The chicken I’d basted repeatedly, monitoring its temperature obsessively. The salad with three different toppings in separate bowls so people could customize it. The vegan protein I’d researched and tested twice before today to make sure it would actually taste good.
