Jason followed after a moment but stopped beside me first.
“For the record,” he said, “Director of Library Services sounds considerably more impressive than mid-level project manager.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Careful.
Your brand is slipping.”
He laughed, genuinely this time.
Then he walked away.
Mom lingered.
“I wish I had known,” she said.
I looked at her.
“I wish you had too.”
She started to respond, but the toast began and Dad’s name rolled through the speakers.
She glanced toward him.
That old reflex passed over her face—the instinct to hurry toward the person demanding attention.
Then she looked back at me.
For one second, I thought she might stay.
She didn’t.
“I’ll call you,” she said.
I nodded.
She joined the crowd.
Grandma remained beside me.
Of course she did.
We listened to the first few minutes of the speeches.
Dad was praised for his career, his judgment, his loyalty, his ability to remember details other people missed.
That last line nearly made Grandma choke on her club soda.
I nudged her.
“Behave.”
“I am behaving.”
“You made a noise.”
“I’m seventy-nine.
We make noises.”
I laughed for what felt like the first time that evening.
When the speeches moved into another round of stories, Grandma leaned toward me.
“Are you staying for cake?”
I looked across the ballroom.
Dad was smiling beneath the chandelier.
Mom stood beside him.
Jason was talking to one of Dad’s colleagues but, for once, not gesturing wildly.
I realized I didn’t need to stand there hoping one of them would come back and prove something.
“No,” I said.
“I think I’m going home.”
Grandma picked up her beaded clutch.
“Good.
I’m coming with you.”
I stared at her.
“You love cake.”
“I love your porch more.”
“You complained about the porch steps last time.”
“I complained about your failure to install a handrail.
Different issue.”
I smiled.
We walked toward the ballroom doors together.
Dad saw us before we reached them.
His expression shifted, and he lifted one hand.
For a moment I thought he might leave the group.
He didn’t.
