My mother kept going, and as she spoke, I watched Elena’s face. Elena smiled, eyes shining, chin lifted. She looked grateful. She looked happy. She looked exactly like the daughter my parents adored.
Then my mother’s voice shifted.
Not louder. Not harsher. Almost lighter. Like she was about to make people laugh.
“And, you know,” she said, laughing softly into the microphone, “we always say Elena was our greatest blessing.”
More applause.
My father lifted his glass too. He glanced at Elena with pride so visible it felt like a spotlight.
My mother smiled wider.
“And honestly,” she added, “we probably should have stopped having kids after Elena.”
The room laughed.
It started as a few chuckles—some surprised, some indulgent. Then it spread, because laughter is contagious, and because people love a joke that makes them feel included in someone else’s family humor. Someone at the back snorted. A few relatives clapped like it was clever.
