The preparation started a week before. I took three days off from my accounting clients to help set up. I ordered flowers, white roses and peies per my mother’s specifications. I hand wrote 60 place cards in the calligraphy she insisted upon. I coordinated with the caterer, pressed the tablecloths, polished the Waterford crystal glasses that had been a wedding gift 40 years ago.
On the day of the party, I arrived at 7 a.m. I wore jeans and a t-shirt because there was no point dressing up when I’d be in the kitchen for the next 10 hours.
By 6:00 p.m., the house looked perfect. Candles glowed on every surface. The dining table stretched across the living room set for 30 with my mother’s finest china. I had changed into a simple black dress. Nothing fancy, nothing that would draw attention.
Wendy. My mother’s voice caught me in the hallway. She looked me up and down, frowning. Is that what you’re wearing? It’s black.
I thought it was appropriate.
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