It was 10 minutes before people were supposed to start arriving when I got the text. I was standing in the doorway of the kitchen trying not to cry over a beet salad. Not because of the beets, though they do look vaguely like something you’d pull out of a surgery tray, but because my daughter was bouncing around the kitchen like her entire future depended on whether grandma liked her lavender glaze.
Maybe it did. In her head, anyway. Ava had been up since 5am.
That wasn’t an exaggeration or a dramatic flare. I heard her alarm go off. She’d already baked, prepped, frosted, stirred, burned one thing, then remade it, and steam cleaned the floor once because it was, in her words, giving health inspector energy.
The table was set for 23 people. Handwritten name cards. Fresh flowers.
Printed menus. The whole room smelled like thyme, butter, and something sugary I couldn’t identify. It smelled expensive.
Ava had curled her hair. Her apron was clean. She was glowing in that tired, adrenaline-fueled way you only see in cooking competition finalists and brides with second thoughts.
And then my phone buzzed. Group chat, family thread. The one we usually used for things like happy Easter.
And blurry pictures of someone’s casserole. It was from my dad. We’ve decided to celebrate at a restaurant.
It’s adults only. No punctuation. No apology.
Just that. First I thought I misread it. Or that it was a joke.
Ava had just pulled a tray of sugar-free pear tarts out of the oven for grandma’s diabetic neighbor. She was humming. I stepped out into the hallway like I was going to answer a call.
I wasn’t. Not yet. I just needed to stop my hands from shaking first.
I stared at the message. We’ve decided. Not, I. We.
I called my dad first. It rang twice. Hey, he said sounding cheerful.
You get the message? You’re not coming? I asked. My voice was steady, but only because my body had already entered some kind of survival trance. No, no, we changed plans.
It was just easier this way. We’re already here. You’re at the restaurant right now? I asked.
Yep. Just sat down. The menu looks great.
Everyone’s here. Pause. Why? Because Ava’s been cooking for three days.
I said. You said we’d host it here. She made enough food for 23 people.
She’s been up since five this morning. He was quiet for a second. Oh.
Well. Tell her not to take it personally. She can freeze the leftovers, can’t she? Gotta go, waiter’s here.
I stared at the phone. Then I called my mom. She picked up and said, hello, like nothing was on fire.
Did you really just not come? I asked. There was a sigh on the other end. Honey, don’t start.
We just thought it would be more convenient. And honestly, we didn’t want to risk anyone getting sick. Sick.