My mother’s 78th birthday wish was simple: one dinner at the Italian bistro her church friends loved. But the hostess took one look at her cane and worn handbag and called her “cheap” in front of a crowded dining room. Then a crash came from the kitchen — and everything changed.
I drove through downtown, my mother humming softly in the passenger seat.
Seventy-eight years had not dulled her excitement for small joys, and tonight, the smallest joy was a single dinner reservation.
She wore her favorite vintage dress, the navy one with tiny white flowers she had owned since I was a little girl.
“You look beautiful, Mom,” I told her, glancing over at the stoplight.
“Oh, stop. I look like an old woman trying to remember what being young feels like.”
She laughed. “Thank you for doing this, Maria’s troublesome daughter.”
I smiled at the old nickname she had given me when I was four.
