By the time my daughter‑in‑law told me to stand, my knees felt like they were full of broken glass.
The charity gala was somewhere between its second and third hour, that hazy stretch of the night when the band had settled into safe background music and the waiters moved like a small, efficient army between cocktail tables. Crystal chandeliers glowed over the ballroom at the Fairmont on Michigan Avenue, turning every sequined dress into a mirror. From the balcony you could see the river and the lights of downtown Chicago, all of it glittering, all of it deliberately impressive.
And I, seventy‑one years old with osteoarthritis in both knees, was still on my feet.
I had spent the evening drifting from group to group, introducing myself as Victor’s mother, smiling through small talk with his colleagues and their spouses, nodding along while people bragged about donations and summer homes and their children’s internships.
My legs had started complaining an hour ago. Now they were past complaining and edging toward open rebellion.
I told myself I could make it a little longer.
I always tell myself that.
The gala mattered to my son. Victor had joined the board of the Children’s Hospital Foundation two years earlier and had thrown himself into it the way he did everything else these days: as if it were another performance review he could not afford to fail.
This year he was co‑chair. His name was in the program, on the step‑and‑repeat wall by the entrance, printed on the little Lucite plaques at the silent auction tables.
His wife, Natasha, had planned the entire event. Or, as she liked to say, she had curated it.
Six months of work, she’d reminded anyone within earshot.
Six months of vendors and tasting menus and decor mock‑ups and sponsor calls. Six months of rehearsals so that tonight would look effortless.
It did look effortless.
The ballroom was all cool white and silver: white linens, white roses, low arrangements of candles floating in glass bowls. There were ice sculptures on mirrored pedestals and a string quartet playing tasteful covers of pop songs near the stage.
Servers in black vests circulated with trays of champagne flutes. Everything gleamed.
Everything felt like Natasha.
I had been invited, technically. Really, Victor had insisted I be there.
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