Try Seven (the end)

7.

All eyes were on us like watchers of a very popular soap opera. At four o’clock exactly, the party began. I was so nervous, scared of what might happened. My hands were on my lap and my eyes anywhere than facing forward.

Ms. Thames stood up and said, “It’s nice to have so many people here. It’s good to see everyone from the neighborhood here to join in the celebration of the fiftieth birthday of such a wonderful man. I’ll not talk much. Everyone, the man of the hour.”

My dad got up and said, “Thank you.” He then sat back down.

My mom nudged him and whispered, “You can say more than that.”

He got up again and said, “Thank you very much.” He sat back down again.

The third oldest child got up, looked at our mom and told my dad happy birthday in all the foreign languages he spoke. Instead of silence from the guests, he received applause. The glitter in my mom’s eyes told me that she was proud. And so was I. I never knew he spoke five different languages.

We were the first to be served. With the food came alcohol. I looked over to my dad, then my mom; their eyes said it all. My older brother walked over to the server, whispered something and then returned with bottles of apple cider. The wine was removed. My hands were not on my lap anymore; the nervousness evaporated.

My oldest sister danced with my dad, the way she used to when she was small.

There was a camera man there, recording everything. I watched the tape a few days ago. Ms. Thames looked unhappy. The civil conversation between my family, our mingling among the people that were there. Us laughing. Us being happy like when we were children. And I realized what the problem was, we grew up–and I hated it.

Thank you for reading.