PART 2

As the sun began to lower, my mother tapped a spoon against her glass.

“I thought we could finish with a few words for Amy, Lucas, and the baby.”

Brenda stood before my mother finished speaking.

“I’ll begin.”

Her chair scraped across the patio.

Lucas looked at me silently, asking whether he should stop her.

I shook my head.

Brenda raised her glass.

“First, a toast to my grandchild. May this baby inherit my son’s intelligence, his common sense, and, if we are fortunate, his metabolism.”

Several guests shifted uncomfortably.

Then she looked directly at me.

“And let us hope Amy remembers that after today she can stop eating for two.”

Nobody laughed.

Brenda continued.

“Perhaps she can return to the gym before Lucas becomes embarrassed to be seen with her.”

The entire garden became silent.

A child near the fence lowered his bubble wand.

I felt every guest glance toward me and then quickly look away.

The napkin twisted between my fingers until it tore.

Lucas shoved his chair backwards.

“That is enough.”

Brenda rolled her eyes.

“It was a joke.”

“No,” Lucas replied. “It was cruel.”

He stepped forward, but my mother gently touched his arm.

“I’ll handle this.”

She did not approach Brenda.

Instead, she walked to the gift table and returned carrying the cedar box.

“We have one final tradition.”

She untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.

Inside were dozens of envelopes. Some were white, some pink, and one was decorated with stickers.

Each envelope had the words **For the Baby** written across the front.

“We asked every guest to write a letter,” Mom explained. “Some contain advice, family stories, or promises for the future. The baby will read them when she is older.”

The guests smiled.

Lucas’s grandfather announced that his letter included fishing lessons. My niece said hers contained rules about cookies.

Then my mother reached beneath the stack and removed one blank envelope.

She carried it to Brenda.

“I saved this one for you.”

Brenda stared at it.

“Nobody told me about this.”

“I sent you the same message as everyone else.”

“I must have missed it.”

“That happens.”

My mother offered her a pen.

“You can write your letter now.”

Brenda gave a nervous laugh.

“Here? With everyone watching?”

“You do not need to read it aloud.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

My mother’s expression remained calm.

“Only what you want your grandchild to know.”

Brenda accepted the pen, but her fingers had begun trembling.

My mother leaned closer.

“When your grandchild opens this box years from now, what would you like her to remember about you?”

There was no anger in her voice.

That made the question impossible to escape.

Brenda looked at the empty page.

Then she looked at me.

I stopped wiping my face because I wanted her to see what her joke had done.

Her gaze moved toward Lucas, who stood behind me with both hands resting on my shoulders.

Around her sat nearly fifty people who had already found something loving to leave behind.

Brenda lowered the pen.

The tip touched the paper.

Nothing appeared.

For the first time since I had known her, she had no criticism, warning, or cruel observation disguised as concern.

She had only an empty page.

“I don’t feel well,” she whispered.

She folded the blank sheet, placed it inside the envelope, and set it beside the box.

“I should leave.”

No one tried to stop her.

Her heels crossed the patio, and the gate closed behind her.

My mother placed the blank envelope with the others.

Then she turned toward the cake.

“Who wants the corner piece?”

The children shouted immediately.

Conversation slowly returned. Someone restarted the music, and my aunt handed me an enormous piece of cake.

“Doctor’s orders.”

I laughed.

Guests approached me one by one.

“You look beautiful.”

“You are already a wonderful mother.”

“That baby is lucky.”

Their words did not erase Brenda’s insults.

They did something more important.

They placed them in the proper proportion.

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