I hid my face behind two dozen white and red roses as I rang the doorbell.

I held my cellphone to my ear in the other hand, asking my mother about her weekend plans.

"Hold on," she said. "There's someone at the door."

She opened the door.

"Happy birthday, Mama!" I said, having flown in to Houston late last night for this surprise. She screamed loud enough to frighten a few neighbors and grabbed me in a tight hug.

This was just the start of the weekend surprises for my parents.

My mom turned 65 in March. I wish that meant she retired from her job as a sales clerk at Macy's, but like so many other Americans, she will need to delay retirement at least a year. My father, in his early 70s, went back to work as a full-time substitute teacher a couple of years ago.

I've never heard them complain about having to work past retirement age, although I have wished I could make things easier for them since they've spent their lives raising six children. In more than 40 years of marriage, I remember them taking a vacation alone together -- not to visit family or friends -- once.

My father had won an award as the top salesman at his car dealership, which sent them to Bermuda for a weekend. That was more than 25 years ago.

My siblings and I decided this would be a good year to surprise them with a gift they would never give themselves. We settled on a cruise to Alaska.

The gift was a big risk. They are scared of cold weather. In Houston, 50 degrees is cold. They have never taken a cruise. They get worried about navigating unfamiliar places.

But, they love the beauty found in nature. We wanted to push them a little out of their comfort zone.

Their sacrifices in our childhoods opened up the world to us as adults. Here was a chance to do the same for them.

We decided to present the "big reveal" at my mother's birthday party the next day by having them unwrap a series of clues.

There were six boxes to open. One from each of us. One by one, they found a plastic gray wolf, a headband with antlers, a jar of maple syrup, a toy plane and a ship.

Of course, they guessed it.

"We're going to Alaska," my dad said.

At the moment, they seemed touched by the gesture. Later on, each of them privately approached one of us children, trying to get out of the trip or have it delayed.

We held firm. We reassured them all the details had been arranged and sent them off with a big binder of everything they needed to know.

Meanwhile, all of us held our breath. They were only gone for five days, but it felt much longer.

I talked to them as soon as they returned.

"It was so majestic and beautiful," my dad said. He pointed out that most of the people on the cruise were middle-aged or seniors.

"Older people really enjoy it," he explained. "They feed you the best food on the face of the earth. They really take care of you like no one would."

My mother, who is notoriously particular about food, agreed.

"I loved it," she said. The ocean, mountains and trees were breathtaking.

"We got sunshine," she said. "No clouds, no cold."

What a relief.

They made friends with a traveler from Canada, an elderly South Korean woman, who said she prayed for good weather after meeting and talking to my parents.

Bless that woman.

It didn't surprise any of us that after this experience, my mother decided that her entire family -- children, spouses and grandchildren -- needed to take a cruise with them next.

It's that parental instinct to immediately want to share the best things you experience with your children. My father said the minute they landed at their port in Alaska, my mother became a woman on a mission.

"Can you believe she spent all day in Alaska shopping for her grandkids and children?" he said. "As soon as we reached there, that's all she thought about: her grandkids."

He laughed.

"Boy, that kind of love is unbelievable."

It really is.

It's best to steer clear of confrontation in the carpool lane. But it's harder to hide the silent judgment in our eyes.

A few days after my son's birthday, I ran into the parent whose son had been a no-show at the party. Her child loudly reminded her that she failed to bring him because she promised him a different outing. He then said, again audibly emphatic, that they didn't end up going anywhere.

The mom tried to avoid eye contact. I tried to pretend the child had not had this conversation right in front of us. The entire exchange was awkward and seemed so easily avoidable: Had she called or emailed in advance, or even apologized on the spot, I would have understood. Family schedules are hectic and packed, and we've likely all experienced an etiquette fail at some point.

As it is, the entire dance of invitation and response has become trickier. Fewer people bother to respond to invitations at all, while the ease of digital invites has escalated the number of events we are asked to consider.

Earlier this year, British parents sent their son's 5-year-old classmate in Cornwall an invoice and threatened to sue for failing to show up for a birthday party. That's ridiculous, but the frustration with the lack of manners is understandable.

"The rules are still the same," said Melenie Broyles of Etiquette Saint Louis. "It is courteous to respond, so hosts can plan a party," she said. Ideally, potential guests should respond within a day or two of receiving an invitation.

"People do not RSVP like they used to," she said. "People wait until the last minute to respond. We don't even consider the consequences of responding last-minute or not at all."

She estimates the rate of response to formal invites to be less than 50 percent until hosts start calling to follow up. Email services such as Evite have a greater response rate because they allow the host to send reminders, and indicate whether the recipient has viewed the invitation. Plus, it takes only the click of a button to hit "yes," "no" or the unhelpful "maybe."

"Being a no-show is unacceptable," writes Emily Post. Chronically failing to respond or show up can derail friendships and alienate relatives.

But the constant stream of invitations can also be difficult to manage. The Facebook invite has elevated the casual get-together or play date into an Event. Then there are public events to which a person's entire "friend" list is invited, which do not require the same diligence in response.

I've received text invites to parties traditionally requiring gifts, along with the steady stream of invites to events in which the hostess is selling a product. Those do not merit priority in response.

But the guideline to check a calendar within a day and respond in some manner is a good habit to instill in our children.

If the RSVP is dying, we should attempt to revive it.

"I think many families are just trying to survive," Broyles said. "But once you realize (you've missed an event or failed to respond), an apology is always appropriate. People appreciate that you acknowledge it."

Oftentimes, it's not until a person has taken on the financial investment of throwing a significant party such as a wedding or similar formal event that they appreciate the importance of a timely response.

A poster on a website for brides-to-be vented about the nightmares of chasing down wedding RSVPs and dealing with odd guest responses, such as writing in a number of guests much greater than the two who were invited.

"I think this is all normal, which sucks, but it's true. I know before I got married, I was a late RSVP'er too. I think you don't realize how important it is until it's you," she wrote.

Broyles advises hosts that if someone doesn't respond, they need to follow up and make sure the guest received the invitation.

In the late 1800s and early 1900s, when invitations were often hand-delivered, the prompt of an RSVP on an invitation was considered unseemly.

"Well-bred people do not use R.S.V.P. on dinner invitations. Your guests will have sufficient politeness to reply without having their attention abruptly called to it," notes "Mrs. Rorer's New Cook Book," first published in 1902.

"Whether the invitation is accompanied with the request for a reply or not, all thoughtful people will recognize the propriety," according to Agnes H. Morton's "Etiquette," from 1919.

That was when all replies, whether regrets or acceptances, were expected to be handwritten and delivered. Anything less was considered vulgar.

Nowadays, technology has made responding easier than ever, which should raise our expectations of manners -- not lower the bar even further.

Case Flatley is chipping away at a gray block of crumbly plaster using a toothpick-sized stick with a flattened edge.

The 5-year-old stops to brush away the dust and rubble, peering at the indentation in the brick. He's digging for dinosaur bones -- a triceratops, to be exact.

He's focused, but carries on a casual conversation with his dad, David Cossa, sitting next to him at their home in St. Peters, Missouri.

"Can we have pie?"

"Why do you want pie? You still have Easter candy," Cossa, 29, asks.

"No," Case clarifies. "Pie for dinner."

His other dad, Bryan Buffa, 37, is a pastry chef, so perhaps the request is not outside the realm of possibility.

No one is having pie for dinner.

Buffa has known Case since he was born.

He remembers when Case was 3 and his biological father, Buffa's cousin, died after struggling with addiction. Case had lived with his maternal great-uncle and aunt until Child Protective Services intervened.

By that time, Buffa and Cossa had been together for a couple of years. They knew they wanted a family. They decided to become licensed as foster parents so they could take care of Case, with the hope of adopting him.

It was a drawn-out process. They had background checks and classes and home visits and detailed paperwork. But they were committed to being ready when the call came.

The phone rang on a Friday in November of 2012.

"We are concerned for his safety," the social worker said to Buffa. "Can you take him for the weekend?"

Buffa didn't hesitate: Absolutely.

Case carried a bag of clothes with him and an old silk shirt he used as a blanket. At first, he asked a lot about Maw Maw and Paw Paw. Buffa told him he was going to stay with them until the judge made a decision about where he would live.

For the next year and a half, Buffa and Cossa went to court hearings, filed more paperwork and dealt with a rotating door of state workers. They felt like their lives were under a microscope. In September of 2013, they got legally married in Iowa, where gay marriage is recognized, and had a wedding in St. Louis.

Case was the ring bearer.

Almost nine months later, a judge terminated Case's biological mother's parental rights. The adoption was scheduled for five months later. They were finally nearing the finish line, although there were worries that gnawed at Cossa.

Only Buffa's name would be on the adoption certificate because their marriage wasn't recognized in Missouri. They planned to petition six months later to add Cossa's name as a legal parent.

"During the adoption process, there were some days when I felt left out," Cossa said. "I was doing all the same work Bryan was. I was just afraid with his name on everything, if something were to happen, (Case) wasn't my child. I had no rights over him."

He had been living with Case for two years and taking care of him while working, just as his partner had.

"He's my child, and I deserve those rights just as any father does," he said.

He worried what could happen if a cop stopped them and didn't believe Case was his son. Or what if there was a medical emergency -- would he be allowed to even see his child in the hospital?

He wasn't going to be an official father, even after traveling this long road to become official.

Then, two weeks before their adoption hearing, a Kansas City judge ruled that marriages of Missouri gay couples wed in states or countries where such relationships are legally recognized must be honored here, as well. A later ruling in St. Louis found Missouri's ban on same-sex marriage to be unconstitutional.

As soon as the couple heard about the ruling, they called every state worker involved in their case to see if both their names could be on the adoption record.

A week before the adoption, their request was approved.

On Nov. 5, 2014, they took Case with them to the St. Louis County Courthouse.

The had explained to Case the night before that a judge was going to sign a paper and make it official.

"You're going to be our son forever and always," they told him.

The proceeding took less than 15 minutes. They both felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

"It was a relief to know he was going to be safe with me," Buffa said. He said he felt his cousin's spirit with him in the courthouse. "We were going to give him all the things his dad wasn't able to give him."

Cossa said he felt assured.

"Now you know they can't take him away from us," he said. "I used to go into his room and pray by his bed. I'd ask God to watch over him and keep him safe."

Buffa said every time Case calls him "Dad," it melts his heart.

On this ordinary day at their kitchen table, working on his dinosaur excavation set with his parents, Case is persistently chiseling, scraping and hammering away at that chunk of rock. It seemed immovable when he started half an hour ago.

He pauses and wipes his hand across his forehead. It's a little harder than it looked when he started. But he's as persistent as his parents. And just as the foundation of their family emerged gradually, he starts to see an outline emerging in the plaster.

"I found a bone!" he says. "Daddy! Look, I found some bones!"