Graduations.
First communions.
School plays.
I went to all of them.
Every one.
Not once in ten years did anyone drive to my house in Broad Ripple.
Not once did anyone sit at my dining room table.
Not once did anyone call first and say, “Walter, what do you need?”
I want to be fair about this because fairness matters to me, and because I have had a full year to think about it without the heat of that night clouding my judgment.
Some of the non-calling was grief.
In the early years, grief disorients people. It makes them selfish in ways they do not intend and often do not recognize. I gave my family credit for that for longer than I probably should have.
Some of it was the assumption that I was fine.
I am a man who presents as fine even when I am not. That is either a strength or a coping mechanism, and at my age I suspect it is both.
But after a while, the non-calling stopped being grief.
It became habit.
And habits, if nobody challenges them, become expectations.
What my family had developed over ten years was a quiet expectation that Walter would show up. Walter would bring food. Walter would ask how everyone was doing. Walter would drive home alone. Walter would be there next time.
Walter was reliable that way.
My sixty-eighth birthday fell on a Saturday in March.
That year, I decided to try something different.
I called Patrice in January and told her I wanted to host a birthday dinner at my house. Not asking her to organize it. Not hinting. Not waiting to see if anyone remembered.
I was organizing it myself.
I invited her, Greg, their two children, Dennis, and Karen.
Seven people, including me.
I had the menu planned. I had the date clear. I confirmed with everyone individually.
Patrice on a Tuesday.
Dennis on a Thursday.
Greg by text, because that is how Greg communicates.
All three said yes.
I bought groceries on Friday morning. I spent Friday afternoon and Saturday morning cooking. A roast. Roasted vegetables. Carol’s potato recipe. A cake from scratch, using a method I had found online and practiced twice in the weeks before because I did not want it to taste like a man had made it alone for the first time.
I set the dining room table properly.
The good china.
The cloth napkins Carol kept in the bottom drawer of the sideboard.
The ones she reserved for occasions.
I set the table for seven.
At five-thirty, thirty minutes before the time I had given everyone, I lit the candles.
Six o’clock came and went.
Then six-thirty.
Then seven.
At seven-fifteen, I called Patrice.