“Don’t.”
Relatives went. Someone forgot a purse and came back and left again without looking at the photograph. The dining room emptied until it was the three of them and the gold balloons and the unlit candles and the sheet cake with HAPPY 70TH FRANK in letters Margaret had paid extra to have even.
Frank sat down because standing had become a performance he could not hold.
“I was going to tell you.”
“After they sang,” Margaret said. “You said that. You wanted the song. You wanted the wish. Then a conversation in a quieter room like I am a child you manage.”
“I didn’t want to ruin your party.”
“It was your party. I made it. That is different.”
Patrick laughed once, no humor.
“He has a box of ruined parties in Dayton, Mom. Their birthdays. Not yours.”
Margaret looked at her son.
“How long have you known.”
“Ten days.”
“And you put it in a gift.”
“Yes.”
She nodded as if that too were a marriage she would have to decide about later.
Frank said, “Matthew and Josh—”
“Do not say their names in this room like I should learn them with cake still on the table,” Margaret said.