I continued.
“No disappearing.”
Their smiles softened.
“Not on birthdays. Not on holidays. Not on ordinary Tuesdays. Not because work is busy. Not because you’re embarrassed. Not because you think someone else will make the call.”
I looked at Grant.
“And definitely not because you think frightening your mother with a police officer is funny.”
He winced.
“Fair.”
Mark raised his hand.
“Deal.”
Sarah followed.
“Deal.”
Eliza nodded.
“Deal.”
Caleb lifted his glass.
“Deal.”
Jason sighed dramatically.
“I guess I’m legally required to say deal.”
“Jason.”
“Deal.”
Finally, Grant placed his hand over mine.
“Deal.”
His voice was quiet.
“And I’ll prove it.”
I squeezed his fingers.
Then they brought out the cake.
The candles were new.
The ones I had lit at home had probably burned themselves into little pools of wax beside six empty chairs.
But these flames were bright.
And when my children began singing “Happy Birthday,” they were loud, badly synchronized, and terribly off-key.
It was perfect.
I closed my eyes for a second and listened.
Suddenly, I remembered their father when we were young.
A loud house, he had once said.
A table that’s never empty.
