I put the phone face-down on the table and stood in my dining room and looked at the six place settings I had laid, one for me and five for the people who were not coming, and I felt the silence of the house in a new way. Not the clean peaceful silence of a space that belongs to you but the particular silence of a room that has been prepared for people who have decided not to arrive. The balloons spelling HOME had started to lose air, the E sagging lower than the rest. I had chosen that word carefully, hung those balloons because the house was not just a house but the thing that house meant: stability, permanence, a place no one could take from me. The word hung above the empty chairs and felt, in that moment, both exactly right and unbearably lonely at the same time.
I did not cry immediately. I sat down at the head of the table in my place and looked at the untouched settings and thought about the history of being in this family, which was a long history of adjusted expectations. The high school graduation they arrived for just as I was removing my gown. The college awards ceremony they missed for Kevin’s soccer game. The promotion announcement my father had received with that’s nice, dear before turning back to the television. My mother waving me away when I tried to read her a story I had written at ten years old, her show was on. Kevin’s C on a math test celebrated with a baked cake. Kevin’s single win in a local tennis tournament discussed proudly for weeks. They were not cruel people in the simple sense of that word. They were people for whom I had never quite managed to become real in the way that Kevin was real to them, and I had spent a long time trying to understand whether that was something I had failed to do or something I had never been given the tools for.
I got up and began to clear the table. My movements were methodical rather than angry, which surprised me slightly. I put the chicken in a container. I disposed of the mashed potatoes. I wrapped the lemon tart and put it at the back of the refrigerator. I washed the dishes I had not used, dried the glasses I had not filled, put everything away. I was erasing the evidence of the dinner I had made for people who had decided, without the courtesy of a real explanation, that something else was more worth their time.
I was nearly done when the knock came at nearly midnight. A soft, uncertain knock, nothing like the front door knock I had been imagining all evening. Through the peephole: Amber, Kevin’s girlfriend, in sweatpants, holding a square cardboard box from a grocery store bakery. I opened the door.
She said she was sorry they were late and offered a weak smile and pushed the box into my hands. Through the plastic window on the lid I could see a sheet cake with bright blue frosting. The price tag was still attached to the side, nineteen ninety-nine, slightly peeling at the corner. I looked at it for a moment and then I stepped aside and let her in.
