And in the center of it all, you sit alone.
Your solid-gold watch reads 9:43 p.m., though by now time has stopped feeling like minutes and started feeling like injury. You had arrived at seven forty-five, early enough to inspect the flowers yourself, to confirm the reserve tequila list, to make sure the chair for your youngest granddaughter had an extra cushion because she hated sitting too high at the table. You had smiled at the maître d’, adjusted your cuff links, and thought, with a foolish warmth you would never admit aloud, that maybe turning fifty-five would mean something after all.
Thirty enthusiastic confirmations.
Zero people.
At first, you assumed traffic.
Then delays.
Then one small emergency that would explain one branch of the family. Then maybe another. Then maybe everyone had gotten trapped in some absurd chain of coincidence. Your daughters-in-law were always late. Roberto always answered messages in batches. Martín never remembered time zones even when he wasn’t traveling. Your youngest, Elena, lived like a woman in a perfume ad and thought calendars were suggestions.
You gave them grace in ten-minute increments.
