Baby proof

'We're fine,' I say, feeling relieved that I made the decision to wear my wedding ring one final time.

She looks around fervently, then leans in and whispers, 'Don't even tell me he's pulled a Scott on you.'

I shake my head, wondering how she, of all people, would dare cast stones at Scott. Then again, my mother is one the finest revisionist historians in the world, giving O.J. Simpson a run for his money. O.J. seems to have convinced himself that he didn't kill anyone, and in my mother's mind, she never did a thing wrong. At the very least, she has rationalized that my father drove her to cheat- which is absolute nonsense. My father was a better husband than she ever deserved.

'No, Mother,' I say, thinking how much easier and clear-cut an affair would be. I could never stay with a man who cheated on me. No matter what the circumstances. I am more like most men in this regard. No second chances. It's not so much about morality, but about my inability to forgive. I'm a champion grudge holder, and I don't think I could change this about myself even if I wanted to.

'Don't you lie to me, Claudia,' she says, enunciating each word for maximum impact. Then she nudges Daphne and asks in a loud voice if she knows something. Daphne shakes her head and takes a sip from her champagne glass.

'Mother. It's Zoe's day,' I say. 'Please stop.'

'Oh, dear God! There is trouble!' she practically shouts. 'I know when there's trouble.'

My dad mutters something about how fitting that is, on account of her being the cause of most of it.

My mother narrows her eyes, spins in her chair to face him. 'What did you just say, Larry?'

'Mother,' Maura calls from the powder room where she is doing her last-minute preening. 'Please stop whatever it is you're doing in there!'

'Unreal. How is it that I'm being blamed for concern for a child?' she says to Daphne, her only potential ally in such situations. Daphne feels the same way about our mother as Maura and I do, but she can't help sucking up to her. She is vulnerable and sensitive and needs my mother's love in a way that both angers me and fills me with profound pity. Maura and I long ago walled ourselves off from caring about what my mother does or does not do. For some reason, Daphne can't do the same.

'Unreal,' my mother says again, looking wounded.

' You're the one who is unreal, Vera,' my dad says from across the room.

The unfolding scene is so predictable that I have another sharp pang of missing Ben. We often scripted the day ahead of time, placing wagers on who would say what and how long it would take for the words to be uttered.

My brothers-in-law, Scott and Tony, look up from their task of submerging beers in a large bucket of ice on the back porch and make their way into the living room where they exchange a 'we're in the same boat, pal' glance. They have little in common-Tony is a plaid-shirt-wearing, sports-page-reading guy's guy and Scott is a cologne-wearing, Wall Street Journal-subscribing slickster-but they have bonded over the years in that in-law way that is common in many families. Always the perfect host, Scott pours an Amstel Light into a chilled glass and hands it to me with a cocktail napkin.

'Here you go, Claudia,' he says.

I thank him and take a long swallow.

'What's all the commotion about?' Tony asks. He and Daphne have been together since high school. Their long history coupled with his unwavering fidelity has earned him the right to chime in-a right that Scott lacks even in his own house.

'Ben's not coming,' my mother informs them. 'What do you make of that? Am I the only one who thinks this is suspicious?' She looks around, hand pressed to her cleavage.

'Mother. I mean it. Not another word,' I say. It is hardly a denial, but any normal person would take the cue and shut up. My mother proves she is anything but normal by glancing up at the ceiling, moving her lips in silent prayer, and rising slowly. 'I need a cigarette,' she announces. 'Daphne, dear, won't you join me in the backyard?'

My sister gives my mother an obsequious nod. Only after she stands and follows my mother does she turn back and give me a slight eye roll. Daphne wants to please everyone. It is her best-and worst-trait.

The doorbell rings a few seconds later. I glance at my watch and realize that the party is officially under way. I am safe for a few hours. I hear Maura squealing at the door, and the sound of her best friend, Jane, squealing back. Maura and Jane were roommates and sorority sisters at Cornell, and like Jess and I, the two have been inseparable ever since. In fact, Bronxville was their joint decision. After living in Manhattan for years, they researched the New York and Connecticut suburbs exhaustively until they came up with two houses in the same neighborhood. Maura is wealthier than Jane, but Jane is prettier-which makes the friendship fair and balanced. Evidence of this is the conversation I overhear now:

'Your house looks amazing!' Jane says. 'That floral arrangement is to die for!'

'Your highlights are to die for! Did Kazu do them?'

'Of course! Who else would I let touch my hair?'

As the rest of Maura's friends file in, I think what I always think when I'm in Bronxville. Everyone is exactly the same: smug, polished, and if not downright beautiful, they have, at the very least, maximized their genetic lot. And most of them have had at least two forays into the magical and seemingly addictive world of plastic surgery. Having a little work done, they whisper. My sister had her nose tweaked and her boobs lifted after William was born. She is not outright beautiful, but with loads of money and sheer force of will, she comes much closer to the mark than Daphne or I do. Her whole crowd, in fact, is tweezed, tanned, and toned to perfection. Their clothing is magazine-layout perfect, and their style so similar that their collective garments and accessories could easily belong in the same closet or photo shoot. I need not consult a fashion magazine this month-because one look around the room, and I know the latest trends include billowy skirts, bejeweled ballet flats, and chunky turquoise necklaces.

Their husbands are all dashingly handsome, at least upon first glance. Some have receding hairlines, others have weak jaws or overbites, but such shortcomings are overshadowed by a patina that comes with having money. A lot of money. They are confident, smooth talkers with full-bodied laughs. They wear Gucci loafers with no socks, pressed khakis, calfskin belts. Their hair is gelled in place, their skin smells of spicy aftershave, and their custom linen shirts are rolled in neat cuffs just high enough to reveal their fancy yet still sporty watches.

Their conversation is self-congratulatory and ever-predictable. The women talk about their children's private schools and their upcoming vacations to the Caribbean and Europe. The men discuss their careers, golf games, and investments. There is occasional gossip about neighbors not in attendance-the women are biting; the men disguise it as banter.

What strikes me the most on this day is that Zoe and her friends seem to be on display as the ultimate accessories, coordinated with their siblings and, in one painful case, their same-gender parent. The girls wear oversized grosgrain bows in their hair and expensive, smocked dresses and have already learned how to flirt outrageously. Their brothers wear monogrammed john-johns and knee socks, and they have already learned to swagger and brag.

Following our lunch of tea sandwiches and elaborate pasta salads (and goat-cheese pizza for the kids), a professional ballerina from Ballet Academy East arrives to dance en pointe for Zoe and her fifteen closest friends, who scurry to change into their own leotards and tutus. They are treated to a group lesson in the pool house along one mirrored wall. The mothers line up like paparazzi and snap photos of their own. I switch to wine, keeping my glass filled while I sneak glances at my watch. The sooner the party ends, the sooner I can break my news and move on with the rest of my life.

When the ballet lesson concludes, it is time for cake, the highlight of any party. There are few things as satisfying as very expensive cake. We sing to Zoe, watch her blow out her candles in two tries, and wait for a piece of cake. A few women accept a slice from the caterer, but most decline and sneak dainty bites from their husbands. I find myself with the B for birthday and think B for Ben. I miss him in so many ways, but right now I miss him in the way you always miss someone when you're single among a room full of couples.

I pour another glass of wine and follow the crowd into the living room where Zoe begins to open presents