Chapter 2: The Birthday Dinner

Victor came home at ten past three in the morning.

I heard the front door, then his careful steps on the stairs. I lay still with my eyes closed. He smelled of cold night air, and under it, something sweet that was not mine.

I told myself it was the restaurant below his office. Or the elevator. Or nothing.

He slid into bed without a word. After a long time, I whispered, "Where were you?"

"Reports," he said. His back was to me. "It was a long night. Go to sleep, Grace."

The words sat in my throat. Camille answered your phone. There was music.

I did not say them. If I said them, I might hear the answer.

By morning he was gone. On the kitchen counter was a note. Home by seven. Make everything perfect for Mother.

No "sorry about last night." No "happy anniversary."

I put the gift box at the back of a drawer, under the tea towels. I told myself I would give it to him another day.

Then I started the lamb.

I cooked all afternoon. I rubbed the meat with garlic and herbs, the way my mother taught me. I polished the silver. I set six places at the long table: Margaret, Harold, Olivia, Ben, Victor and me. I wrote each name on a small white card in my best handwriting.

At seven, the doorbell rang.

Margaret came in first, in a white coat, like a queen arriving at a small village. She did not hug me. She handed me her coat without looking, the way you hand it to a maid.

"Grace," she said. "The house smells strong."

"It is the rosemary."

"Hm."

Harold followed her, leaning on his cane. He gave me a small nod. Olivia came next, in a tight red dress, her phone already in her hand. Ben came last, with a bunch of yellow flowers.

"Happy birthday, Mother," he said, and then, quietly to me, "These are for you."

Before I could thank him, Margaret turned around. "Oh, I almost forgot. I invited Camille. She has been such a help to Victor. You do not mind, of course. There is always room."

Camille stepped through the door behind her.

She wore a soft green dress and a smile that looked fresh from the mirror. In her hands was a small silver box with a ribbon.

"Thank you for having me, Grace," she said sweetly. "Something smells wonderful."

My own voice sounded far away. "Of course. Come in."

There is always room. But I had set six places, not seven. And there was no more room at my table.

I was still thinking about that when I walked into the dining room. Margaret was standing by the table with my small white cards in her hand.

"I made a few changes," she said. "A birthday should be arranged properly."

She had put Camille beside Victor's chair. Right beside it. That was the seat I had saved for myself.

And my card was now at the far end of the table, next to the kitchen door.

"That way," Margaret said, with a smile, "you can get up easily, dear. You will be going back and forth all night."

Olivia laughed into her wine glass.

I waited for someone to say something. No one did.

Victor walked in at twenty to eight, still in his work suit. He kissed his mother's cheek and wished her a happy birthday. He looked at the table and saw the new cards. His eyes passed over my place at the far end, and then they moved on.

"Victor," I said softly. "Camille is in my—"

"Grace." His voice was low and tired. "It is only a seat. Please do not make a scene on Mother's birthday."

So I swallowed it. I always swallowed it.

I carried out the lamb. It was golden and tender and perfect. I knew it was perfect, because I had checked it three times.

Margaret took one small bite. She chewed slowly. The whole table watched her.

"Dry," she said. "Again."

My face went hot. "I think it is—"

"It is very good, Grace," Harold said gently.

"Harold, you would eat a shoe if she put sauce on it." Margaret set down her fork. Everyone laughed. Even Victor.

"I suppose it is how you were raised," Margaret went on, in a kind voice that was the cruelest thing about her. "Your mother is a nurse, is she not? Nurses have no time for flavor. Everything must be plain. Honest. I remember at the wedding, she wore those white shoes."

"They were comfortable shoes," I said. "She had worked a double shift to be there."

"Of course, dear."

"The lamb tastes lovely to me," Ben said quietly.

"Benjamin, eat your dinner."

Olivia leaned back and looked at my dress. "Is that from last year, Grace? I swear I saw it at the charity lunch." She tilted her head. "Do not worry. It is the thought that counts when you cannot afford to shop."

More laughter.

I looked at Victor. He was cutting his meat. He did not look up. Camille touched his sleeve and said something to him, and he smiled and leaned in to listen.

He is just being polite, I told myself.

I stood up and refilled the water glasses. I walked back and forth, back and forth, like a woman in a restaurant.

In the kitchen, I pressed my hands flat on the cold counter and tried to breathe.

The door opened. Camille slipped in with two empty plates.

"You look tired, Grace," she said kindly. "Victor mentioned you have been emotional lately. I told him not to worry. I understand how hard it is, staying home all day."

"He said that?"

"Oh, only because he cares." She set the plates down and smiled. "Let me know if I can help. Truly."

She left, and the door swung shut behind her.

I stood there for a long time, wondering when my husband had started talking about me to her.

After the main course, it was time for gifts.

Camille went first. She handed Margaret the silver box. Inside was a silk scarf in deep blue.

"I remembered you loved this color," she said.

Margaret held it to her cheek. "Oh, Camille. You see everything. This is the gift of someone who truly understands me."

Then it was my turn.

I gave her a small frame. Last month I had found her old wedding photo in a box in the attic, torn on one side. I spent three weekends carefully mending it. In it, Margaret was young and laughing, with Harold beside her.

Margaret looked at it for a moment. "How sweet," she said. "Homemade things are for people who cannot afford real ones."

She put it down on the sideboard, face turned toward the wall.

I felt something crack quietly in my chest.

I kept smiling. I had practiced that smile for nine years.

Then Margaret rose, her glass in her hand.

"To family," she said. "And to everyone who truly belongs to it."

Her eyes rested on Camille. They stayed there for a long moment.

"Camille, dear, thank you for taking such good care of my son. Some women are born to stand beside a man like Victor."

"It is my pleasure, Mrs. Holloway," Camille said softly.

Victor lifted his glass too. He smiled at her.

I stood at the far end of the table, by the kitchen door, holding the water jug.

From where I stood, it looked exactly like a family portrait.

And I was the woman holding the jug.