Chapter 24 - A Table of My Own
At thirty four, I bought a dining table.
That sounds unimportant.
It wasn’t.
My condo had always had a tiny four seat table.
I replaced it with a long oak table that could seat eight.
Mom asked:
“Planning something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Dinner.”
I invited:
My parents.
Aunt Barbara.
Two friends from work.
Naomi.
She refused at first.
“I’m your former attorney.”
“You’re also annoying.”
“Compelling.”
She came.
I cooked.
Not because someone ordered me.
Because I wanted.
Pasta.
Roasted vegetables.
Bread.
A ridiculous cake Mom brought.
When everyone arrived, Dad hovered near kitchen.
“Need help?”
“Yes. Open wine.”
He did.
Mom carried plates.
Naomi cleared salad bowls without being asked.
Nobody had assigned gender roles.
Nobody waited for one woman to earn food.
We sat.
I looked around.
For one strange second, I remembered Dorothia tapping a knife against her glass.
Who told you that you could sit?
I pulled my chair out.
Sat.
Aunt Barbara said:
“To Eloin.”
I groaned.
“No speeches.”
She ignored.
“To owning your own chair.”
Everyone laughed.
I did too.
Then Dad raised his glass.
“To title alerts.”
Louder laughter.
It was absurd.
Perfect.
After dinner, I washed dishes with Mom.
She said:
“Do you ever want to marry again?”
“Maybe.”
“Scared?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Fear can be information. Just don’t let it become the decision.”
Apparently everyone in my family had become a therapist.
I flicked water at her.
She screamed.
Dad came in.
“Why is the kitchen wet?”
“Wives eat last.”
Mom threw towel at him.
We laughed until I cried.
Not because nothing had happened.
May you like
Because it had.
And it no longer owned the room.
