I was unsurprised to wake and find myself alone in the house. Our final words to each other were far from fond goodnights. They were more like a final battle, a culmination of years of small hurts collected, hoarded, waiting to be used in case of all-out warfare. Have we come to this? You hurled accusations about how I was never there during your childhood, how I was too concerned with myself, my career. I prodded your weak spots with well-aimed comments about your disastrous life choices, grimly refusing to shout, because I know – I know – how much you hate that. To be fair, you hadn’t told me the doctors had you back on keto, and yes, I made the whole meal before your arrival, so my having made your favorite dessert was not, as you called it, a final f-you to you and your efforts to get well. Just as the lasagne wasn’t an effort to undermine your efforts. You’ve always loved how we – how I – make lasagne. And maybe if you hadn’t arrived with two bottles of wine – one in hand and one inside – it all would have gone a little more smoothly. I don’t know. Maybe my whole idea of a festive birthday dinner, with the hurts tucked away, and the happy memories at the table, was just a pipedream anyway. Happy birthday to me.
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