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Only in the strictest technical sense was the announcement a surprise. Every person at the two-family dinner—four parents and three siblings and two siblings-in-law, but better categorized as Moms, and everyone else—knew exactly what was coming, and if the couple-to-be had any sense at all, the announcement would come before dessert, because the Moms, guessing correctly what was happening, picking up on hesitations and shy smiles and Talmudically deconstructing “It’s going really great mom, yeah,” into hard reliable intel, and with their hypertrophied intuition knowing right away that their current only and biggest dream and wish was going to come true, at last, but it’d better be before dessert, because those cakes—marble chocolate and lemon meringue, from scratch, yes, the entire thing from scratch, the graham cracker bowl perfectly symmetrical and unskewed and the meringue of eggs beaten with a whisk, properly and with love, until, look at it, it’s almost obscenely foamy—Saran-wrapped to the finest serving plates in the respective armoires—plates that, because coincidence has impeccable timing, matched each other indescribably well, a blue floral to a sunshine yellow.
The Moms peppered the first three-and-a-half courses with explosions of excitements, little squeals of Momisms, of I’m so happys and I can’t waits. The couple deflected each of the many entreaties to just do it already with smiles and strategic forkfuls of special-occasion roast beef and mashed potatoes.
Somehow the Moms had positioned themselves at one head of a table, like they were co-chairmen. Directly across from them was the...
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