Thirty years of my son’s marriage is a significant date. Of course, they should celebrate.
But why am I hearing about it from my grandson and not Wesley himself?
“Maybe he was going to call,” I answer, trying to keep my voice light-hearted. “You know, your father always putting things off until the last minute.”
Reed looks uncomfortable, picking at the leftover pie with his fork.
“I guess he does,” he agrees without much conviction.
We move on to other topics. Reed talks about his plans for the summer, about a girl named Audrey he met at the library. I listen, nodding, asking questions, but my thoughts keep returning to this dinner.
Why hasn’t Wesley called? Is he really planning to celebrate without me?
When Reed leaves, promising to stop by over the weekend, I stand at the window for a long time, staring out at the empty street.
In the house across the street, Mrs. Fletcher, my age, plays with her grandchildren. Her daughter comes every Wednesday bringing the kids. They are noisy, running around the yard, and old Beatrice is glowing with happiness.
I wish my children could be there too.
