When my grandson Danny got engaged, his young bride’s family made a great show of the wedding they wanted, and a quiet request that I help pay for it. I did, gladly, and without a word to anyone. That’s between a grandmother and her grandson.
On the day, I put on my good blue dress and drove to the reception hall, proud as could be. I went looking for my place card near the front, near Danny.
I found it at last at the very back of the room — the children’s table, tucked beside the swinging doors to the kitchen, where the waiters brushed past all night. The bride’s aunts and cousins filled the head table up front.
For a moment my face burned. I am seventy-three years old and I had paid for a good part of this very room. But I have learned that dignity is not something anyone can seat you out of.
So I sat down among the eight-year-olds, and I complimented their manners, and I waited. And near the end of the meal, the best man tapped his glass and said, ‘And now, a few words from the groom’s grandmother.’
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