I told myself it was age. Nerves. Confusion. The overwhelm of being wheeled into a crowd.
My mother leaned close and whispered with practiced sadness, “He doesn’t talk much anymore. It’s hard for him.”
I nodded like I understood. Like I accepted this without question.
Then she raised her glass and began her toast, voice trembling just enough to make the moment about her.
“Ninety years of wisdom, love, and generosity,” she said. “He built our family. He gave us this life.”
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