Off The Record
My Husband Never Celebrated My Birthdays For Three Years — The Reason I Discovered Later Left Me In Tears
After three years, three no-shows, and one late spouse who was constantly coming up with an excuse, I found myself sitting alone at a candlelight table for two on my birthday once more. But I’d had enough that evening. I believed I meant it when I told him it was over—until I found out what he had been concealing.
I liked how the corner booth was hidden away. Close enough to the window to observe the passing scenery, yet far enough away from the commotion.
There was a certain comforting silence emanating from the brick walls, like if they were confiding secrets.
Old jazz was played slowly and softly from above, resembling a pulse. I adored the spot once.
A small pool of wax formed at the base of the candle that flickered on my table. Like the wine in my glass, it was partly gone.
The seat on the other side of me was vacant and unoccupied. The napkin hasn’t even creased.
The waiter has visited twice earlier. Every time, he smiled kindly and asked whether I was ready to place my order. I had always replied, “Just a few more minutes.”
However, his smile changed when he returned a third time. It was the type of thing you give to someone you’re starting to feel sorry for.
“Ma’am, are you prepared to place an order?” Gently, he inquired.
I took a moment to gaze up. I simply gazed at the vacant seat.
Then I said, “I’ll be leaving soon,” blinking and forcing a smile that stopped short of my eyes.
He nodded and stepped aside gracefully, but I could sense the sympathy that was present in the place where there should have been a celebration.
As if it were important, I folded my napkin with care.
I put my handbag over my shoulder. The sound of my heels hitting the tile sounded like an overly loud clock.
I walked by tables occupied by couples who were engrossed in one another, clinking glasses and laughing gently.
The night air outside pricked my flesh. Even though you didn’t want to be awake, the cold made you feel that way.
“Hey Sarah!”
I went cold.
I pivoted. And there he was. Mark. My spouse. Breathless, with a crooked tie and windblown hair.
“I sincerely apologize,” he stated. “I was stuck in traffic and I—”
“No,” I replied. Like ice, the words lodged in my throat.
“This is not something you get to do again.”
“I attempted—”
“Mark, you’ve been trying for three years. Three birthdays.” I’m done every time you were “busy,” “late,” or “forgot.”
“I didn’t intend to—”
My voice cracked, but I managed to keep it calm as I said, “I don’t care.”
“I am your spouse. I’m worthy of more.”
He turned his head away.
I informed him that he would be receiving divorce papers tomorrow.
With my heels clicking on the sidewalk, I left. He didn’t follow. Just stood there in the streetlight, alone.
The world had begun to quiet down again two weeks after the divorce papers were sealed and signed.
The quiet in my home felt numb instead of acute. I was folding towels and drinking lukewarm coffee that afternoon when there was a knock on the door.
Evelyn, Mark’s mother, was standing there when I opened the door.
She had changed appearance. Not the tidy, critical person she usually is.
Her normally proud face was soft and drawn, as if she were carrying something heavy, and her hair was frizzed out by the wind.
She remarked, holding a hard leather purse in both hands, “I know I’m not your favorite person.”
And I’m aware that you’re probably not interested in seeing me. However, I must mention something.
I remained silent. I simply moved out of the way.
Like strangers at a bus stop, we sat at the kitchen table. The sound of the clock was too loud. I waited.
She cleared her throat.
She remarked, “You were always… strong-headed.” “Hard. However, I always knew you loved my son.”
“I did,” I responded in a flat voice.
She gave a nod. “Well, you were very much loved by him. even though he displayed it in an odd manner.”
I glanced down at my mug, which was chipped. “He had many opportunities.”
She didn’t dispute. Slid a small folded piece of paper across the table after reaching into her purse.
You were unaware of something. I didn’t believe I belonged there, but now… I now believe that hiding it from you is worse.
I opened it up. It was an address. written by hand.
“What is this?”
She got up and zipped her coat.
Go have a look for yourself. You don’t have to speak with him. You don’t even need to exit the vehicle. However, you ought to at least be aware if you ever gave a shred of concern.
Then she was gone, her coat waving like a flag in the wind.
It seemed unusually silent at the cemetery, as if the ground itself were holding its breath.
As I passed ancient headstones that had been worn smooth by time and weather, gravel crunched beneath my feet.
The tall oaks that bordered the path had heavy branches and leaves that whispered secrets I didn’t want to hear.
I read the names of strangers as I moved slowly between the rows; some were elderly, some were lost young. They’re all characterized by sadness.
Something seemed to be pressing against my ribs, tightening my chest. Then it attracted my attention.
Lily Harper was born on October 12, 2010, and passed away on October 12, 2020.
I paused. My hands became icy. My birthday. on the same day. As if anticipating my arrival, the numerals gazed back at me.
The message was brief. The stone has no engraved flowers. The weight of a brief existence divided in half, her name, and her dates.
I remained motionless, repeatedly reading the writing as if I might change its meaning by blinking. However, nothing changed. It wouldn’t.
I felt a shiver run up my spine and reached out, my fingers shaking as I touched the stone’s edge.
Then I heard him.
“Why are you in this place?”
I gently turned around. Mark.
He appeared thinner. His eyes, those gentle brown eyes, were sunken, as if sleep had forgotten him, and his jacket was dirty.
His voice was calm and bland as he said, “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“This surprised me,” I said. “Who was she?”
He gazed at the tombstone.
“My daughter. from my initial marriage.”
The words struck the chest like a blow.
After a moment, he stated, “She was ten.”
“Automobile collision. I couldn’t make it, and neither could her mother. Shortly after the funeral, we were divorced.”
I was unable to talk. I was at a loss for words. I was limited to kneeling next to the grave.
I assumed it was him who had placed fresh flowers in a mason jar.
They were still lovely even though they were fading a little. A tiny plastic tiara was sitting next to them.
When they desire to feel like princesses, the sweet little girls dress up.
“You visited here each year?” barely audible above the wind, I inquired.
He gave a nod.
Each year. On her birthday.
I said, “On my birthday.”
His jaw tightened as he averted his gaze.
“I wanted to support you.” I made an effort. However, I was unable to do both. While I was grieving for her, I wasn’t sure how to celebrate you. It was like being betrayed. of the two of you.
We took a seat on a wooden bench close to the cemetery’s edge, far enough away from the other tombs to feel isolated but still close enough to hear the sound of the wind singing softly through the leaves.
The smell of damp ground and the sweet, vanishing aroma of fallen leaves permeated the damp air. A crow, lonely and keen, screamed out somewhere close.
I spent a considerable amount of time looking at the ground. There were too many things in my heart to list them all. I broke the stillness at last.
I said, “I assumed you didn’t give a damn.” Even I felt I sounded tiny when I said, “I thought you forgot me.”
Mark turned to face me, his expression honest and worn out. He remarked, “I never forgot you.” Not once. Sarah, you were loved. I still do.
His hands were in his lap as I looked down. Those were hands I knew. At one point, they had kept mine for numerous dinners.
When we danced in the living room, they had turned up the music.
They had grabbed for me during depressing movies and caressed my back during lengthy car drives.
“You ought to have informed me,” I responded, sounding harsher than I intended.
He averted his gaze, then returned. “I was scared,” he admitted.
“I’m worried you’ll go. I’m worried that everything will collapse if I open that door.”
Slowly, I nodded.
“You ought to have trusted me.”
He gulped hard and blinked rapidly, as though he was trying to get rid of everything he hadn’t spoken in years.
“I understand,” he said.
“You’re correct.”
I exhaled deeply while gazing into the trees.
“What I did cannot be undone. You can’t either. But perhaps…” I stopped and turned to face him.
“Perhaps we can alter the course of events.”
I noticed a change in his eyes as he turned to face me. Something supple. Perhaps hope.
I went on to explain, “I’m not saying we go back to how things were.”
But perhaps we give it another go. right from the beginning. Don’t lie. No quiet. No secrets.
Mark smiled slightly, cautiously, and blinked several times. “That would be nice,” he said, just above a whisper.
I gave a nod. “Then we give it a shot.”
The world felt softer a year later. Although it was no longer sharp, the pain was still there.
At Lily’s burial, Mark and I stood together, wrapped in coats, our breath visible in little clouds.
The trees surrounding us rustled in the wind, and the brown, red, and gold leaves danced on the grass.
I knelt down and set a tiny chocolate cake—just large enough to fit a candle—on the floor. Mark knelt next to me and laid a picture of Lily down gently.
She was wearing the same plastic tiara that I had seen months before, and she was beaming broadly.
My chest constricted, but it was out of love, not pain. For a girl I’ve never met but who I now hold dear.
After some quiet time, we headed to a peaceful diner outside of town. The coffee was warm and the floors were checkered.
At the corner booth, we split a piece of apple pie. It’s the same place where people come to start again.
Mark gave me a tiny, neatly wrapped box after reaching into his coat pocket.
He said, “It’s for your birthday.”
I carefully opened it. It contained a small lily-shaped pendant on a gold necklace.
I started to cry. I murmured, my voice barely holding, “It’s beautiful.”
He declared, “I will never miss another one.”
I reached for his hand and muttered, “I know.”
Because we no longer celebrated a single life. We paid tribute to two.
The best part is that we accomplished it together.
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