A few family members called me too.
Some were angry.
One aunt told me, “Family helps family.”
I asked whether she wanted to cover the ballroom.
She changed the subject.
A cousin said Mason would remember forever that I ruined his birthday.
I asked whether Mason had personally requested a ballroom, DJ, magician, custom sneaker station, professional photographer, and eighty-four guests.
He admitted he did not know.
That was when I realized something else.
Almost everyone defending the party was defending the spectacle, not the child.
Three days before Mason’s birthday, Vanessa came to my apartment.
She held the same gold invitation I had brought home from dinner.
Her makeup was gone.
Her hair was pulled into a rough ponytail.
She looked exhausted rather than theatrical.
“The hotel canceled the ballroom reservation,” she said.
I opened the door wider but did not invite her to sit until she asked.
“What happened to the deposits?”
“Some are refundable.
Some aren’t.”
“I’m sorry you lost money.”
She gave me a bitter laugh.
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m sorry you lost money.
I’m not sorry I refused to replace it.”
She looked around my apartment as though searching for evidence of the selfish life she had accused me of living.
“You really could have afforded it.”
“That was never the question.”
“It matters.”
“No.
Permission matters.”
She looked down at the invitation.
“I thought you’d complain and then pay.”
The honesty surprised both of us.
I waited.
Vanessa rubbed her thumb over the gold lettering.
“You always do.”
“I know.”
That answer seemed to take some of the fight out of her.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, “What does Mason actually want?”
Vanessa frowned.
“For his birthday.”
“He likes basketball.
He wanted his friends over.
Pizza.”
“That sounds very different from the Brookhaven Grand.”
She sank onto the edge of my sofa.
“I wanted it to look good.”
“For Mason?”
She did not answer immediately.
Finally, she said, “For everyone.”
That was probably the closest Vanessa had ever come to admitting what the party really was.
The ballroom had not been about a ten-year-old boy needing a magical childhood memory.
It had been about Vanessa wanting to produce something impressive and assuming I would finance it.
“What are you doing now?” I asked.
