Chapter 2 - THE FAMILY LUNCHEON THAT WAS NEVER REALLY DOROTHY’S
Dorothy had hosted the luncheon for twelve years.
At least, that was the family version.
The truth was that Dorothy owned the backyard.
I did almost everything else.
The tradition began before Kevin and I married.
Every summer, Dorothy invited relatives, old neighbors, former coworkers, and whichever people she was currently trying to impress.
At first, it was simple.
Sandwiches.
Fruit.
Iced tea.
Then Dorothy discovered she liked hearing people say:
“You always do this beautifully.”
So the luncheon grew.
White linens.
Fresh flowers.
Catered desserts.
Seafood one year.
Prime rib the next.
And after I married Kevin, Dorothy discovered I could organize events.
I worked in purchasing for a regional hotel group.
I knew vendors.
I knew how to compare prices.
I knew how much food twenty-five people actually required.
The first year she asked for help, I was happy to do it.
Then the money came up.
“I’m a little short,” she said.
The difference was eighty dollars.
I covered it.
The next year, the difference was two hundred.
Then four hundred.
By our fifth marriage anniversary, I no longer knew what Dorothy’s actual budget was.
She handed me cash.
I bought everything.
Whatever remained, I paid.
Whenever I mentioned reimbursement, Kevin said:
“It’s once a year.”
It was never once a year.
Christmas brunch.
Easter dinner.
Eleanor’s retirement party.
Amanda’s shower.
Dorothy’s anniversary celebration.
There was always some occasion.
And always some explanation for why the woman demanding imported cheese and floral centerpieces had somehow run short at checkout.
Kevin’s response never changed.
“You know Mom.”
Yes.
That was the problem.
I knew Dorothy.
And Dorothy knew me.
She knew I hated embarrassing anyone publicly.
She knew I would rather spend my own money than put out an inadequate meal.
She knew if twenty guests were coming, I would make sure twenty guests were fed.
So the amount she gave me mattered less every year.
She was not budgeting.
She was testing how much of her obligation I would absorb.
Then she took credit.
At dinners, guests thanked Dorothy.
Dorothy smiled.
Sometimes she would wave toward me and say:
“Angela helped.”
Helped.
I had spent three days coordinating the event and six hundred dollars paying for it.
Kevin once told me:
“Why do you care who gets credit?”
I didn’t.
Not then.
I cared when my generosity became expectation.
May you like
I cared when expectation became entitlement.
And I finally stopped absorbing it when Dorothy called me useless while Kevin stood five feet away and said nothing.
