Hosting my husband’s 40th birthday party in our backyard seemed like a great idea, until I was surrounded by loud music, loud guests, and what seemed like a whole kindergarten class.
And in the middle of all of it was Brad.
Forty looked unfairly good on him.
Hosting my husband’s 40th birthday party in our backyard seemed like a great idea.
I was standing near the patio door with a stack of napkins in one hand and my phone in the other, but even after years of marriage, I sometimes still caught myself just looking at him, thinking how lucky I was.
I was so naive.
But I couldn’t pause for long.
Someone asked whether the veggie tray dip contained dairy. One of the kids began crying over a toy truck.
A small blur shot past my legs, and I looked down just in time to see my four-year-old son sprinting under the nearest table with a cake pop in his hand.
I sometimes still caught myself just looking at him.
“Will, honey, we don’t throw cake pops.”
“I wasn’t!” he yelled back, which usually meant he either had or was just about to.
I looked at Brad again. He was smiling at something Ellie had said.
She and I had known each other since second grade. She was family in every way except blood.
Then someone said my name again.
“Hey, where should I put the drinks?”
She was family in every way except blood.
I turned. “On the side table. No, the other one. Thank you.”
I moved through the party feeling proud of myself for throwing this all together and keeping it mostly under control, while also vowing that I’d never host something this big again.
At one point, Ellie slipped in beside me. “You’re doing too much,” she said softly.
I let out a laugh. “I always do. You know that.”
“I could’ve helped more before people got here.”
“You already did a lot.”
“You’re doing too much.”
For half a second, I let myself feel grateful she was there.
Then Will shrieked from somewhere under the tables. A little later, I spotted him crawling out from beneath a tablecloth with two other kids. He looked like he’d been raised outside by cheerful raccoons.
His knees were grass-stained, and his hands were filthy.
“Oh my God,” I said, catching him by the wrist. “Come here.”
Will twisted, laughing. “Mommy, no.”
He looked like he’d been raised outside by cheerful raccoons.
“We are not cutting the cake with you like this.”
“But I’m playing.”
“You can play after. Come on.”
I led him into the house, set him on a chair by the kitchen sink, turned on the faucet, and started scrubbing his hands. Will kept grinning at me.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You can play after. Come on.”
He looked up, eyes bright, cheeks pink from running around. “Aunt Ellie has Dad.”
“Aunt Ellie has… what?” I paused. “What do you mean, baby?”
“I saw it when I was playing.”
I frowned as I wrapped a kitchen towel around his hands to dry them. “Saw what?”
He pulled his hands free. “Come. I show you.”
Young kids sometimes say things that feel ominous, but later turn out to be nothing.
That wasn’t one of those times.
“Aunt Ellie has Dad.”
I let him tug me back outside. Will lifted his arm and pointed at Ellie.
“Mom,” he said loudly, “Dad’s there.”
Ellie looked up at us and laughed.
I laughed, too. “Silly.”
But Will didn’t laugh. He kept pointing, serious now, his little face intent with the frustration of not being understood. I followed the line of his finger.
“Dad’s there.”
He wasn’t pointing at her face. He was pointing lower, toward her belly.
Ellie leaned forward to grab her drink. Her top shifted slightly, just enough for me to glimpse dark, fine lines on her skin. A tattoo.
All I could make out was the edge of an eye, the bridge of a nose, part of a mouth. A portrait… of who?
My smile stayed on my face, but inside, I felt like I was trying to weather a typhoon in a dinghy.
“Okay,” I said to Will. “Go sit at the table and wait for cake now. You can play again afterward.”
He nodded and ran off. Then I walked toward Ellie.
He was pointing lower, toward her belly.
“Ellie,” I said lightly, “can you come inside for a second? I need help with something.”
“Sure!”
She set down her drink and followed me into the house. The second the sliding door shut behind us, I panicked a little. I needed to see the full tattoo, but Will’s words, “Dad’s there,” echoed through my thoughts.
I couldn’t just ask her to show it to me. I needed a plan.
“What’s up, Marla?” Ellie asked. “You need help with the cake?”
I needed to see the full tattoo.
“Uh…” I scanned the kitchen. I pointed toward the shelf over the refrigerator. “Can you grab that box for me? I… hurt my back a little. I can’t reach it.”
“Ouch! When did you hurt yourself?” She glanced at me over her shoulder as she moved toward the fridge.
“Preparing for the party. It’s not bad, I just don’t want to make it worse.”
She stepped up on her toes, stretching her arms overhead.
Her shirt lifted. It was enough to show me all I needed to see.
