Thirty-seven years of marriage had taught me the rhythm of Henry’s birthdays.
This one felt no different at first.
But by the end of the day, I would be questioning everything I thought I knew about my marriage.
This one felt no different at first.
Coffee brewed.
A cake cooled on the rack.
I was sorting the mail.
Henry walked in wearing the navy sweater I bought him last Christmas.
His silver hair was still damp from the shower.
“Anything good in the mail, Annie?” he asked, kissing the top of my head.
A cake cooled on the rack.
“Bills, a card from your cousin, and one little package,” I said, sliding the brown box toward him. “Looks like someone remembered the big day.”
He picked it up with a smile, turning it over in his hands.
Then his smile died.
His thumb hovered over the return address.
The easy warmth drained from his face like water through a sieve.
“One little package,”
“Henry?” I tilted my head. “Who’s it from?”
He didn’t answer right away.
He just stared at the corner of the box.
“Caroline,” he finally said.
The name landed in the kitchen like a dropped glass.
I knew exactly who Caroline was.
“Who’s it from?”
He had mentioned her perhaps three times in nearly four decades.
Always in passing, always with the careful tone people used for closed chapters.