Part 8: The Next Invitation

A year after the wedding, June and Sam invited me to a small anniversary dinner. The invitation arrived by email with the guest list and a note that our father would not be attending. June did not assume that because I had managed the wedding, every future gathering required the same plan.

I accepted. Mrs. Ellis came too, carrying a book she thought Sam would enjoy. We ate in the garden, where the feeder had finally attracted more birds than squirrels. Sam claimed the squirrels had simply found a better restaurant.

The apple cake rose evenly this time. June was disappointed there was no excuse to serve it as pudding. We ate it in slices and read another page from our mother's notebook. She had written a reminder to mend a coat and call a friend. The ordinary list made her feel close in a way a dramatic revelation might not have.

My father had respected the request not to contact me directly. His attorney sent one notice about a family document that required my attention. I reviewed it with my own adviser and responded through the appropriate channel. The exchange did not become an invitation to discuss the past.

I still did not know whether I would meet him. My counselor reminded me that not knowing was a valid position. I could make a different decision later without promising one now.

At the workshop, the student whose trumpet I had repaired returned with a new problem: a dent that affected one slide. She showed me where it had happened and asked for an estimate. I explained the options and the time each would take. She chose a repair that fit her budget and left the instrument with me.

Mrs. Ellis closed the bookshop early one evening and invited me downstairs for tea. She asked whether the anniversary dinner had been easier than the wedding.

“In some ways. I knew who would be there, and I knew I could leave.”

“Did you need to?”

“No. Knowing I could helped.”

June called the following week to ask whether I would help Sam repair an old music stand for his classroom. I said yes and asked him to send photographs of the damaged joint. He did, along with a list of the tools he already had. We arranged a day when I could visit without turning the repair into a surprise family gathering.

When I arrived, the stand was on the worktable in their garage. Sam had cleared space and found the correct screws. June brought tea and left us to work. We repaired the joint, tested the stand, and adjusted the height until it held a book without slipping.

At lunch, June showed me the notebook's final page. Our mother had written a list of invitations she wanted to send: a neighbor for tea, a colleague for dinner, and a friend she had not seen in years. Several names had question marks beside them.

“She was deciding whether to ask,” June said.

“Maybe she was deciding whether she had time.”

We could not know. We left the question marks where they were.

Before I left, June handed me a copy of the photograph of the kite. On the back she had written, Sam says the tree was a maple. The kite's fate remains unconfirmed.

I put the photograph in my wallet beside Priya's card. I no longer carried the card because I expected every family visit to go wrong. I kept it because it reminded me that an invitation could include choices, a clear way to leave, and people willing to respect the answer.