Mom’s work schedule had changed. She wasn’t home much and often sleepy even when she was around. Twelve-year-old-me wrote a letter saying I missed her, missed talking to her, missed hanging out. That I’d love to schedule some time with her—I thought I was so grown up. 

Saturday morning family brunch became a tradition. We’d bake early Saturday morning: fudge and bread and cakes and pies. Fruits were peeled and sliced and arranged or juiced. Coffee, of course. And little bags of tea fanned side by side to look pretty, even if nobody used them.

The table was set with good china. It wasn’t actually good, but it matched the blue tablecloth and there were cloth napkins and so we felt fancy. We even added little name tags with flowers and hearts – even though the four of us sat where we always sat for regular daily meals.

Mom put a lot of work into it. We tried to help, but we were slow and distracted and still weekend sleepy, so the brunt of the scurrying and slicing and ovenworking was hers. By the time we sat at the table, she was tired, but there were verses to be read and questions to be pulled out of a prompt book. She rallied. We took turns sharing. 

Then we disbanded. Mom packed away brunch. Family time completed.

Only recently, half a century later, did I understand why the tradition begun.

While helping mom pack kitchenware before her move to a smaller home, I said, “Oh my goodness! Remember how you used to have this whole thing about fancy Saturday family brunch?”

“That was your idea.”

My idea? I wonder if my 12-year-old self felt like she’d gotten what she’d needed.