Just blankets.
Vanessa looked exhausted.
Real exhausted.
Human exhausted.
She held Theo.
I held Owen for a few minutes.
Nobody competed with anybody.
Then she said, “I still think you could have moved the wedding.”
I stared at her.
“You’re never going to let that go.”
“No.”
“Fair.”
She looked at me.
“I still think you were stubborn.”
“You scheduled a baby shower over a wedding.”
“I was hormonal.”
“You signed a contract.”
“I was hormonally organized.”
Owen made a noise like a tiny goat.
We both looked at him.
Vanessa sighed.
“I haven’t slept in 4 days.”
“That,” I said, “is a real emergency.”
She laughed.
Actually laughed.
Later, she admitted scheduling the shower on October 18th had been slightly aggressive.
I told her invading Poland was slightly aggressive.
She said, “Do not compare my baby shower to a military campaign.”
“You assigned me logistics.”
She threw a burp cloth at me.
It was probably the healthiest conversation we had ever had.
Mom took longer months.
She kept mentioning bell weather.
“I heard the gardens are beautiful in spring.”
“Yes.”
“The ballroom ceiling was restored by hand.”
“Apparently.”
“Evelyn hosts Christmas dinners sometimes.”
“Yes.”
“I suppose I’ll never be invited.”
“Mom, what?”
“You skipped my wedding.”
Silence.
“For a baby shower.”
“I know.”
“You cannot make the estate the tragedy.”
She finally stopped.
Mostly.
That Christmas, Daniel and I hosted dinner at our house.
14 people, nothing fancy.
Turkey, potatoes, wine, too many desserts.
Aunt Susan came. Eric and his family came. Aunt Evelyn came in a red velvet jacket carrying three bottles of wine.
She placed them on the counter.
“This one is for dinner. This one is for dessert. This one is in case somebody becomes emotional.”
Vanessa arrived with the twins.
Mom and dad came too.
I had invited them because I wanted the door open, not the bank account.
Those were different things now.
Mom brought a pie, no banana bread.
Progress.
Milo had decorated the mantle.
There were stockings.
Mine. Daniel’s his. And two tiny temporary stockings for Owen and Theo.
He had written their names with fabric marker.
Vanessa stared at them.
“You made those?”
“Yeah, for the twins.”
He looked confused.
“Their family.”
That sentence landed harder than any argument I could have made.
Vanessa looked at me.
I said nothing.
Mom looked down.
Later, I noticed our wedding photograph on the mantle.
The one that caused 340 missed calls.
It was framed.
Beside it was a drawing Milo had made.
I was a white triangle. Daniel was a tall rectangle. Aunt Evelyn looked like a purple potato holding champagne. Milo had drawn himself between us wearing huge black sunglasses.
Above his head, ring security.
At the bottom, two and 14 came.
I laughed.
Then I noticed seven little empty chairs drawn off to one side.
I called him over.
“What are those?”
He looked.
“The empty chairs.”
“Why did you draw them?”
“because they were there.”
My chest tightened.
Then he added, “But Uncle Eric moved over later so it didn’t look empty anymore.”
I looked again.
He was right.
The empty chairs existed, but they were tiny.
We were in the center.
That became the lesson I kept.
Not Bell, not the country club, not the ridiculous registry, not even the three and 40 missed calls. Though Daniel still laughed whenever my mother’s name appeared twice in a row on my phone.