The week of my 40th birthday started the way every important week in my life started: with me standing in the kitchen, holding a planner in one hand and cold coffee in the other.
I had already confirmed the caterer, finalized the flower order, and texted Veronica three times about music. My laptop was open to my real estate calendar. Three closings sat there waiting for me, stacked so tightly they looked like one wrong move away from collapse.
Mark wandered in wearing his robe, scrolling on his phone.
That part was normal.
What wasn’t normal was him setting the phone face down.
“Gloria,” he said, leaning against the counter, “you’re turning 40. Let me handle one thing for once.”