Then came Thursday evening.
We were halfway through dinner when Sienna brought out the guest list.
She took a black pen and drew one heavy line across the names.
“We’re canceling Saturday,” she announced.
I looked up.
“Excuse me?”
“Your birthday dinner.
We’re not doing it.”
Miles continued cutting his chicken.
“Why?” I asked.
Sienna placed the pen on the table.
“My parents are going to Maui next week.
They found a beautiful beachfront resort, but the price is ridiculous.
We need the money for their hotel.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t find an appropriate response.
“You mean the money I gave you for my birthday?”
“Obviously,” she said.
“It’s just sitting there in the budget.”
“It was supposed to pay for a dinner.”
“Ada, you’re turning sixty.
You’re not a child.
You don’t need a party every time you have a birthday.”
I turned toward my son.
“Miles?”
He stared at his plate.
“Sienna’s parents have had a difficult year, Mom.
Maybe we can celebrate another time.”
Another time.
I had heard those words frequently since Tom’s death.
We could visit his grave another time.
We could have Sunday dinner another time.
We could discuss the unpaid bills another time.
There was always another time for me.
There was never another time for whatever Sienna wanted.
I asked whether she had contacted the invited guests.
“Most of them,” she answered.
“I’ll tell the others tomorrow.”
Then she returned to eating as though she had merely changed the television channel.
I folded my napkin and set it beside my plate.
That was when my telephone rang.
The caller was Rafael Ortiz, my aviation operations director.
I answered because I had been expecting an update about a business meeting scheduled for the following morning.
“Good evening, boss,” Rafael said.
“Your private jet is ready.
The crew finished the inspection, and the contract documents are secured in the cabin.
We’ll be ready for the St.
Louis departure tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Rafael.
I’ll be there by eight.”
“Of course.
And happy birthday in advance.”
I ended the call.
Miles’s fork slipped from his fingers and struck his plate.
“Mom,” he said slowly, “did he just say your private jet?”
Sienna leaned forward.
For the first time that evening, she seemed genuinely interested in something I had to say.
“You own a jet?” she demanded.
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“For nearly five years.”
Miles stared at me.
“I thought Dad sold the business.”
“We sold the original ground-delivery division,” I said.
“We retained the aviation company.”
Sienna’s expression hardened.
“So you’ve been sitting on a fortune while we’ve been struggling?”
“I’ve been paying most of your living expenses,” I answered.
“That’s not the same thing!”
I studied her face.
The woman who had dismissed my birthday as unimportant was suddenly furious that I possessed money she hadn’t known about.
“If you can afford a private jet,” she said, “you can certainly afford one hotel room in Maui.”
“Before we discuss your parents,” I replied, “I’d like to ask about my $1,400 birthday deposit.”
“I already explained that.”
“And the $2,760 resort charge on the emergency household card?”
She stopped moving.
Miles turned toward her.
“What emergency card?”
I explained that I had given Sienna access to a secondary account the previous winter when the cottage
