My husband never planned anything, so when he arranged a candlelit anniversary dinner for our whole family, I thought maybe he was finally trying. Then he stood up to toast our loyalty, and our eight-year-old daughter asked a question that made his wine glass slip straight out of his hand.
The private room at the steakhouse glowed with candlelight, every flame catching on the rims of wine glasses and the silver edge of the cake stand. The cake itself sat on a small table near the wall, “20 Years Strong” piped in soft gold across white frosting.
I had never seen Mark plan anything so carefully in my life.
I smoothed the navy dress he had picked out for me that morning.
Eight-year-old Lily sat beside me in her matching one, swinging her feet under her chair.
“Mommy, you look like a princess,” she whispered.
“So do you, baby.”
Across the table, my mother dabbed her eyes before the toast had even started. Everyone was smiling, the way people smile when they think they are witnessing something rare.
Mark caught my gaze and winked. For two years he had felt far away, working late, quiet at dinner, his phone always face-down on the counter.
I had told myself it was the partnership track, the long hours, the pressure.
“You’re staring,” he murmured, leaning toward me.
“I’m allowed. You planned all this.”
“I wanted it to be perfect, darling.”
At the far end of the table sat Diane, my mother-in-law, in her gray silk blouse. She was not smiling.
Her hands rested in her lap, folded too tightly, and her eyes were fixed on her son.
I lifted my glass to her. She gave me a small nod, and her mouth tightened into something that was not quite a smile.
“Is your mom okay?” I whispered to Mark.
“She’s fine. You know how she gets at dinners.”
Lily tugged on my sleeve.
“Mommy, when do I get to say something?”
“Say something about what, sweetheart?”
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