I'm cranky as I dress for the party, which is strange, since I've been looking forward to it for weeks. The party, a barbecue, is in the backyard of my friend Tamara's Brooklyn house - a yard where I've spent more happy, silly, tipsy days and nights than I can count. This is the yard that made our kids shed their shyness or whiney-ness and become what kids are supposed to be in summer - messy, sweaty, shriekingly happy maniacs. It's the yard where I kissed my husband like a teenager, threw my arms around my two best friends, said yes to another margarita, another piece of grilled sausage, another game of whirlpool. In this yard, the answer was always yes.

When we were younger, the Ehlin-Malleas had an above-ground pool. A few times a summer, Tamara would call saying, "we're thinking of having a party on Saturday" and I would promptly cancel not just our Saturday plans, but our Sunday ones too. We'd show up in mid-afternoon with bottles of rose and bathing suits, and stay well past dark, when the moon had replaced the sun, and sheer, stupid joy had replaced the week's worth of stress we'd arrived with.

But life changed. They started a business upstate. They got rid of the pool. And rented the house to strangers who would never know the joy of Charles yelling "whirlpool" to a group of adults and kids who immediately jumped in, drinks in hand, and joined him in running in a giant circle around the pool. Well, the adults ran. The kids mainly jumped onto Charles's back and hung on his arms. Our whirlpool was as pointless as a conga line, but wetter and dumber.

Tonight's party is the first one Tamara and Charles have thrown in years. They're having it to celebrate something they never could have imagined. Eight months ago, their 24-year-old daughter was found by her roommate lying on the kitchen floor. She tried to talk, but slurred and couldn't walk. By the end of the day, we all knew what an AVM was and that healthy 24-year-olds could have strokes out of nowhere. Her surgery lasted over six hours. Even those of us who didn't pray prayed.

Claudia has had a few more surgeries and more than her share of hospital and rehab stays. And now, she's home. And this is a party to welcome her and celebrate the birthday she missed and the progress she's made.

All of which I very much want to do. But I wish it wasn't happening today. My son and I, who rarely fight, are angry at each other. My daughter is on his side. My husband, who just had surgery himself, has to hang back. It's punishingly hot out and of course, heat will bring its obnoxious cousin humidity to the party. So I stand in my closet, muttering "no, no, no," as I flick hangers across the rod like a picky dater swiping left. I want something simple - something that will easily slide, not just over my body, but also out of the party. My eyes fix on a long black slip dress that I've had for a good ten years. It neither flatters nor un-flatters. It's simply there. I put it on. I'm about to tell the kids we should get going when I notice another dress. A margarita-drinking dress.

This is a dress you wear when you want to celebrate. I put it on and add a pair of big, white exuberant earrings and a little shimmer on my lids and lips. I look joyful. Still, the car ride is hell. My son and I argue. My daughter defends him. I snap at her. They give each other a look. We fume silently and bolt out of the car when it finally gets to their house.

As we walk toward the yard, we hear music and laughter and Tamara's voice telling someone to try the sangria. We get closer. And see Charles as we haven't seen him in years - surrounded in barbecue smoke, laughing, as he presses a spatula into a burger.

I push the gate open. Charles smiles with his big white teeth and opens his arms. We allow ourselves to be embraced, not just by him, but by this yard. This yard that says family and love and big, stupid joy. I turn to Ben and Ava and smile softly. "It feels good to be here, doesn't it," I say and they nod gently and I apologize for having been harsh, because tonight makes it abundantly clear that gentle is better.

Claudia, her leg in a brace, and her gait compromised, but determined, walks from the table to the center of the patio and sways to the music with her dancing friends. One of them takes her hand and moves her arm, so it too, can dance. Her laughter is as fierce and feisty as it was when she was six, wrapped in a towel, her beautiful mess of wet black curls dripping a pattern of happy dots around her feet.

Later, Tamara makes a toast about fortitude, friendship and gratitude and cries as she thanks us and salutes her very brave daughter. We cry with her. For all that has been and for all there is to come. We cry with sadness and compassion and joy. But mostly, we cry because we're home. And we love these people.

I'm so glad I didn't wear the slip dress. Because I don't want to slip out of this party. I want it to last forever.