On the night of my husband’s 40th birthday, everything I had quietly sacrificed for our family was reduced to a single, humiliating laugh. But before I could find the words, my mother stood, and what she said changed everything. I thought I was holding it all together…
I was just holding too much.
Three months before Colin’s birthday, I came across the watch.
I was supposed to be folding laundry. Instead, I found myself scrolling through an online store I had bookmarked months earlier. I recognized it instantly, the same brand he’d admired in a shop window once.
“You’re perfect,” I whispered to the screen.
It was stainless steel, had a deep navy face, and clean lines.
It was elegant enough for a business dinner, and rugged enough to wear with jeans.
I saved the listing and shut my laptop as I heard footsteps upstairs.
Colin never knew.
Not about the online tutoring sessions I held late at night after the kids were asleep, not about the quiet deposits I made into a side account — my husband just thought that I was just bingeing series on my laptop in the den at night.
I had a few high schoolers, a college freshman panicking over thesis rewrites — all paying me just enough to feel like I had something good going for myself.
The morning of Colin’s birthday, I woke early. The house was quiet, still tucked in around itself, and for a while, I just stood in the kitchen with my hands wrapped around a cup of tea.
The oven light glowed warm while the cinnamon buns baked.
I ran my finger over the edge of the counter, checking for crumbs I had already wiped twice.
It was his 40th birthday. He hadn’t wanted a venue — he said it was nothing but a waste of money, so we’d decided on a dinner at home. I’d deep-cleaned the house and brought out my mother’s old serving platters.
**
Last night, my daughter, Maddie, helped me string lights across the backyard pergola.
“Is Dad not home yet?” she asked, standing on a chair as she tied the last loop.
“Not yet,” I said.
“He’s with his coworkers. I think they’re having a birthday drink.”
She didn’t respond. She just gave the cord one last tug and stepped down.
By late afternoon, the house was humming.
My sons, Simon and Matthew, hovered near the snack table, arguing about who got the last cheese puff. My mother brought over her bread pudding and moved with the practiced elegance of someone who had hosted more dinner parties than she could count.
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