My husband and I prepared a luxurious Mother’s Day supper at a restaurant to pamper our mothers. I anticipated thanks, but my mother-in-law and unwelcome family disrupted our quiet supper, creating chaos. then gave me the bill.
Some days, I wonder if “working mom” means “exhausted woman expected to finance everyone’s fantasy.” Priya, 33, mom of two lovely chaos machines, and evidently my husband’s side of the family piggy bank. Let me tell you about the Mother’s Day supper that began well but ended badly.
I felt my strategy was sensible.
“Can we afford Bistro Avignon?” Arman, my husband, questioned while loosening his tie and scanning our joint account. They charge more than a week of food for appetizers.
I pulled at my seldom worn, deep green wrap dress, which I had ironed in a rush after putting the kids to bed. Just one night, Arman. Just want to be good to our mothers. Absent spreadsheets and coupons. Just gratitude.”
His face softened. My meaning was understood. I was exhausted from my project lead job at the business, school pickups, playdates, a toddler’s strange diaper rash, and late-night emails. Even though Arman tried, his freelancing assignments paid irregularly and required his attention at strange hours.
“Besides,” I said, wiping lint off my sleeve, “my raise started last month. We’re celebrating, not splurging.”
Arman grinned and kissed my forehead. “Okay. Make them feel special. They deserve it.”
I smiled thinking of my mother, Mala. Quiet, unselfish, overgiving. She assisted us through every difficulty, from minding the kids on short notice to delivering hot dal when I was unwell to listening without judgment when I wanted to scream.
His mother, Gloria? She provided assistance in a unique way. Expect unwanted parental advice, passive-aggressive apartment comments, and professional digs.
But this wasn’t about scoring. Honoring our mothers.
We arrived to Bistro Avignon before 6:30. Gold chandeliers warmed ivory linens and rich mahogany walls. Elegant violin music playing in the background. It was private, polite, and celebratory—just how I wanted.
I approached the hostess smiling. Reservation under Rahim.”
She checked her iPad. Of course. Most of your party is here.”
“Most?” I blinked. “We should only be four.”
However, we followed her across the busy dining room before I could elucidate. I noticed it then.
Massive table that spans virtually an entire restaurant area. Gloria, dressed in fine silk, sat at the head with a wine glass and her phone. Around her? At least 10 others—her sisters, nieces, a cousin I barely recognized, two neighbors from her building, and a lady with a baby who was not related.
Heart plummeted.
What’s this? Arman seemed as startled as I was when I muttered.
Gloria noticed us. As if welcoming royalty, she said, “There they are!” Our kind hosts!
I froze. My hands turned chilly. This wasn’t supper. The hijacking occurred.
She stood with arms out like a game show host. I hope you don’t mind—why not make it a true celebration? All these women are moms! Ain’t that the day’s purpose?
Arman attempted talking. Mum, we were—
Don’t be foolish! Gloria cut in. “Sit! Priya, you look exhausted—work has been too much. Relax! Tonight, you rule!
No. Tonight I was bank.
Looked along the table. Mala, my mother, sat uncomfortably at the end in her blue kurta. She seemed lost, smiling slightly to avoid attention. Something hot and bitter rose in my chest.
Gloria’s neighbor drank. To Priya! A treat!
Fake grins. Sinking stomach. The appetizer hadn’t arrived.
For an hour, I hosted strangers, serving wine, answering inquiries about my career, and evading remarks like:
“Promotion had a big bonus, I hope?”
“Finally seeing Arman’s cousin Nina!”
“You’re working full-time with young kids?”
Gloria presided.
“Oh yes,” she bragged, “Priya’s a big deal now. Head of some item. Poor thing, they overwork her. Although she’s barely home, I remark, “That’s the price of ambition!”
It hurt to hear every syllable.
I attempted to concentrate on Mala, who calmly pushed peas about her plate. She smiled at me as I caught her sight, saying I know this isn’t what you wanted. It broke me.
Dessert came before I could plot escape. Someone requested crème brûlée for the table—on my behalf.
Gloria clinked her spoon as I grabbed my drink.
Before we finish up,” she said, her voice ringing like a cymbal, “let’s thank our wonderful host!” I received a great gesture. “Priya insisted on treating us all—can you believe it?”
Room erupted with applause. Cheek burns.
“What? No—I didn’t Stammered.
“Don’t be modest, sweetheart,” she cooed. “That raise must make this nothing.”
She waved the server over like a drama staged by audacity gods.
“She’s bill-ready.”
The folder was guillotined in front of me. I opened.
$1,363.92.
A chilly sweat covered my back. Arman was astonished at the number.
I regarded Gloria. “You knew this wasn’t planned. We invited Mala and you. All done.”
She smiled softly. Come on, Priya. Avoid stinginess. Just money—and family.”
“Not everyone at this table is family,” I stressed. “And even if they were, this wasn’t your call.”
An uneasy silence descended over the table.
Gloria’s niece Trina murmured, “I didn’t bring any cash…”
Aunt Sheila said, “I thought this was covered. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have come.”
Smiles faded for Gloria.
Mala softly advanced her plate. “I can help.”
“No,” I whispered. “You pay nothing.”
I faced the server. “May I see a check breakdown?”
He nodded and returned with a list. I immediately pointed out the dishes for myself, Arman, Mala, and Gloria.
“Please put these four meals on my card,” I said.
The server nodded with eyebrows lifted.
Glory gasped. You’re doing what?
The meal I offered is on me. The rest is up to everyone.”
Mala stood alongside me, hands folded. “That seems fair.”
Gloria faced Arman. Say something!
Stands with arms crossed. “She’s right. You stole food from Priya. That’s wrong.”
But it’s Mother’s Day! Gloria sputtered.
“Yes,” I answered, carrying my bag. “I’ll celebrate my mother—who didn’t expect anything, didn’t invite half the neighborhood, and didn’t embarrass me—next year.”
Our total bill for four was $168.47 when the server returned. He smiled when I gave him my card and tip. As we left, the table searched wallets and whispered.
The ride home was quiet.
Mala murmured gently from the backseat. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“I wanted to,” I murmured, looking at her in the rearview mirror. “Just not like that.”
Arman exhaled. I’m sorry. I should have expected it. My mom constantly pushes limits.”
I whispered, “She bulldozed this one.” My laughter was quick, cathartic, and unbelieving.
A minute later, my phone buzzed. Message from Gloria:
“Humiliating. Sheila and I shared the check. No Mother’s Day I deserved.”
I gave Arman the phone. He read, rolled his eyes, and threw it in the cup holder.
“You know,” I remarked, “next year I might just book a massage and go away for the weekend.”
Mala laughed. “If you do, take me.”
All laughed. Really, this time.
I took Arman’s hand. Make a deal. No more stolen holidays.”
“Agreed,” he replied. “Next time, we double-check the guest list.”
I understood as we entered the driveway: It’s not simply limits. Do not let generosity be used against you.
I wanted a lovely night for our moms.
I did eventually.
Not the exploiter.
