Your family, my family

The two invitations hung side by side on the fridge. On the left, a thick cream card with a painted lemon, in Giulia’s beautiful lettering: “Nonna is turning seventy. Saturday, Café Limonaia.” On the right, a piece of planed wood with the letters burned in: “Karl Wagner, 80. Saturday, at the shop. Everyone at one table.” Victoria noticed on Tuesday night, when she pinned Nonna’s card next to Grandpa Karl’s board. Same Saturday.

“Sam. Did you see what it says on your board?” He came in from the hallway, looked, and went quiet. “Saturday.” “Saturday! Nonna’s turning seventy. Seventy, Sam.” He said, very calmly, “Grandpa’s turning eighty.” Then they both just stood in front of the fridge as if the invitations could settle it between themselves.

“Nonna built that café out of practically nothing,” Victoria said. “I grew up behind that counter. I’ve baked her birthday cake since I was fourteen. Nobody else does it.” “Grandpa started the shop,” Sam said. “He hasn’t asked for anything in years, no party, nothing. And now he burns it into a board: Everyone at one table. Everyone, Vici.” “And my family isn’t everyone?” “I didn’t say that.” “But you meant it! Your side gets a party and my side just gets cake, is that it?” She got louder, he got quieter, and then a sentence slipped out of him anyway: “Your side has a party every Tuesday.” The second he said it, you could see he wanted it back.

“Are we keeping score now?” Victoria asked. “Tuesdays against birthdays? I’m not doing that.” She grabbed the trash bag and went down to the basement, to the four bins. She stood there, bag still in her hand, and suddenly realized what they’d been doing upstairs: trying to outbid each other with grandparents. Seventy, eighty. Next round she would have thrown in Grandpa Rolf at seventy-six. She laughed, alone among the trash cans, until her eyes watered.

Upstairs Sam was sitting on the kitchen floor, his back against the fridge, the two invitations above his head. Victoria sat down next to him. “We’re doing this wrong,” she said. “We’re talking like one family has to lose.” Sam nodded. “Tell me what Saturday is to you. Not who matters more. What it is.”

Victoria told him. About Nonna’s birthdays in the sunroom under the lemon tree, with string lights in the leaves. About how at the end Nonna always sings the same song, a little off-key, and everybody joins in. About the cake that only Victoria is allowed to bake from Nonna’s recipe. “If I’m not there, she’ll bake it herself, on her own birthday. And she wouldn’t say a word. That’s the worst part.” Then Sam told her. About Grandpa Karl, who is eighty and still in the shop every single day. About the first board Sam ever planed, at six, Grandpa’s hands over his. “He doesn’t give speeches. But he asked me to say something at the table. Me, not Felix. And Felix is way better at talking.” “You’re good at talking when it matters,” Victoria said.

Then they picked up the phone, which they could have done in the first place. Lucia said, “At noon my café is full, Vittoria. We celebrate when the last customers leave. Seven o’clock.” Claudia laughed on the other end. “Grandpa wants to eat at twelve. By five he’s asleep in his armchair, you know that.” Victoria and Sam looked at each other, almost disappointed it was that easy. It wasn’t completely easy, though. The cake took a whole morning, and on Saturday there wasn’t one. So Victoria baked on Friday night until after midnight, and Sam sat at the kitchen table writing his three sentences for Grandpa Karl, crossing them out five times and taste-testing the batter.

At noon on Saturday the long table stood in the shop between the workbenches. It smelled like wood and pot roast, Grandma Hilde had made her potato salad, and Bernd’s laugh filled the whole place. Sam stood up, said his three sentences, and sat back down. Grandpa Karl nodded once, which for him was more than a speech. Victoria had baked a second, smaller cake from the same batter. Karl ate two slices and said, “Well measured.” At five Claudia hugged her at the door. “Go on. Lucia’s waiting.”

At the Limonaia, Daria had drawn a big 70 with a crown on the chalkboard, and Chiara had decorated the sunroom. Giulia stood at the door and checked her watch. “You’re late.” “We’re coming from my grandfather’s,” Sam said. “He turned eighty today.” “Hm,” said Giulia, and took the cake from Victoria. Sam carried chairs up from the basement, Lucia called him “il gigante” and gave him the biggest slice. At the end Nonna sang her song, off-key as always. Victoria sang along, and Sam hummed, because he didn’t know the words.

On the last bus home, Michael Ellis gave them a nod from the driver’s seat. Victoria pulled her planner and a pencil out of her bag. “In January we sit down,” she said. “Both of us, with every birthday and every holiday from both families. Before two boards ambush us again.” “One board and one card,” Sam said. “You know what I mean.” She leaned into him. She could still hear Giulia’s “You’re late,” and she didn’t know if her mom would ever say it was nice to have them both there. “She took the cake from you,” Sam said. “For my mom,” Victoria said, “that’s practically a hug.”