As I cleaned up the remnants of the day, I couldn’t help but wonder if there was ever a way to please everyone. Perhaps some traditions, no matter how burdensome, are too entrenched to change. Or perhaps, I thought with a heavy heart, the problem wasn’t the tradition itself, but the expectations and entitlements it fostered

Every year as Vincent’s birthday approached, a sense of dread would begin to build in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Vincent – I did, deeply. Nor was it that I disliked his family. The issue was the tradition that had somehow established itself: Vincent’s entire family, led by the ever-demanding Ralph and the critical Neveah, would descend upon our home, uninvited and expecting to be fed and entertained.

For the past five years, I had accepted this as an unavoidable ordeal. I would spend at least two days before the event locked away in the kitchen, cooking vast amounts of food, only to receive lukewarm thanks and no offers of help or even a token gift for Vincent. Their presence, they implied, was gift enough.

This year, I decided enough was enough. I was determined to change the script. My plan was simple: instead of a home-cooked feast, I would order catering from a local restaurant, and instead of an open-house style gathering, I would set specific start and end times for the celebration. I hoped that by doing so, I could enjoy the day alongside Vincent and perhaps even encourage his family to appreciate the effort and cost involved in hosting.

I shared my plan with Vincent, who was hesitant but supportive. He too longed for a birthday that felt more like a celebration than an imposition. So, I made the arrangements, choosing a mix of dishes to cater to various tastes, and sent out invitations specifying the details of the event.

The day arrived, and with it, Vincent’s family. The initial reactions were of surprise and confusion. “Where’s the homemade spread?” Ralph asked, looking around as if the catering dishes were hiding the real food. Neveah sniffed disdainfully at the professionally prepared meals, muttering about “losing the personal touch.”

As the afternoon wore on, the atmosphere grew increasingly tense. Comments were made, both about the food and the “impersonal” nature of the gathering. The final straw came when Valentina, Vincent’s cousin, openly criticized the cost of the catering, suggesting that the money could have been better spent elsewhere.

The celebration ended earlier than planned, with Vincent’s family leaving in a huff, their parting words a mix of disappointment and thinly veiled insults. Vincent and I were left in a quiet, empty house, the joy of the day overshadowed by the fallout.

In the end, my attempt to change the tradition had backfired. Instead of creating a more enjoyable birthday for Vincent, I had inadvertently caused a rift. The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words and regret. It was clear that while my intentions had been good, the execution and reception had been anything but.