Every few minutes, someone needed something.
“Rachel, where are the extra cups?”
“Rachel, are these hot dogs gluten-free?”
“Rachel, the ice is almost gone.”
“Rachel, where should we put Mark’s gifts?”
I kept moving.
That was what I did.
In our marriage.
In our family.
In our life.
I kept everything moving.
At some point, my best friend, Dana, came up beside me while I was arranging plates.
“You know you’re allowed to enjoy your own party, right?” she said.
I laughed.
“It’s not my party.”
“You planned it, paid for half of it, decorated it, invited everyone, and you’re currently refilling mustard bottles. I think that qualifies.”
“That is a very depressing definition of ownership.”
Dana smiled.
For a moment, I looked at her and felt grateful.
She had been one of my closest friends for almost fifteen years.
We had met at our first real jobs after college.
She had been there when Mark proposed.
She helped me pick my wedding dress.
She brought food to the hospital when our son, Tyler, was born.
Tyler called her Aunt Dana.
That was how deeply she had been woven into our lives.
There had never been a reason for me to question it.
Dana reached over and squeezed my arm.
“Go sit down for ten minutes. I’ll handle things.”
“You say that now. Wait until twelve children simultaneously ask you for juice.”
“I survived corporate accounting. I can survive children.”
I smiled.
Then someone screamed.
Not a terrified scream.
A delighted child scream.
I turned and saw Tyler racing across the grass with blue frosting on one cheek.
“Tyler!”
He stopped.
Slowly.
The expression on his face told me he knew exactly what he had done.
“Come here.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I haven’t even accused you of anything yet.”
He considered this.
Then he ran.
I caught him beside the patio furniture.
His hands were sticky, his knees were green from grass, and there was something that looked suspiciously like melted chocolate on the front of his shirt.
“Buddy, we’re taking pictures with Daddy in ten minutes.”
“I’m clean.”
