By the time my wife turned 42, I had learned that a birthday wish could be surprisingly small.
Chapter 2
Emily had removed Diane and Mark from Instagram.
That was it.
She hadn’t blocked their phone numbers. She hadn’t sent an angry message. She hadn’t posted anything about them publicly.
She was hurt, so she quietly removed them from one social-media account.
I understood.
Apparently Mark did not.
“He keeps messaging me,” Emily said.
“How many times?”
She handed me the phone.
I scrolled.
Please answer.
Are you mad at us?
Emily?
Are you done with us?
Why did you remove me?
I don’t understand.
Please just tell me what’s happening.
There were missed calls too.
My jaw tightened.
“He’s called you six times?”
“Seven. One came while I was coming downstairs.”
Karen read the messages over my shoulder.
Her expression changed from concern to disbelief.
“Mark is almost fifty years old.”
“I know,” Emily said.
“Did you answer?”
“No.”
“Good,” I said.
Karen looked at me.
“Tom.”
“What?”
“He has no business repeatedly calling our fifteen-year-old daughter because she took him off Instagram.”
Emily sat down at the kitchen table.
“Is he mad at me because of the invitation?”
“I don’t know,” Karen said.
“He ignored me for days.”
That was true.
Normally Mark answered Emily within minutes.
When she sent the birthday invitation, he vanished.
Now that she’d removed him from Instagram, he apparently couldn’t bear the rejection.
I took a screenshot of the messages and handed the phone back.
“You don’t have to answer anyone who makes you uncomfortable.”
Emily nodded.
“Even family?”
“Especially family sometimes.”
Karen gave me a tired look, but she didn’t contradict me.
The next morning, I woke before six.
Cancer had changed my sleep. Some nights I slept ten hours. Other nights my body seemed to believe rest was optional.
Karen was still asleep beside me when her phone began vibrating on the nightstand.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
I reached over and silenced it.
The screen showed a message from Mark.
Please call Diane.
Five minutes later, another arrived.
I promise this is the last time I’m bothering you, but please call your sister.
Then Diane texted.
CALL ME BACK.
Capital letters.
At 6:42, Karen woke.
“Why is my phone over there?”
“You were getting messages.”
She picked it up.
I watched the birthday morning disappear from her face.
“What happened?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Tom, there are fourteen messages.”
“Most are Mark telling you to call Diane.”
Her eyes widened.
“Is she okay?”
“I assume so.”
“What if something happened?”
She called immediately.
Diane answered on the second ring.
Karen sat upright.
“What’s wrong?”
I could hear crying.
Real crying.
Karen’s face drained.
“Are you hurt? Is Mark hurt?”
Then her expression changed.
Confusion first.
Then fatigue.
“No, Diane, I wasn’t avoiding you. I was asleep.”
Another long pause.
“I understand you’re upset.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Nothing had happened.
Nobody was injured.
Nobody was in danger.
Diane was crying because she was hurt that she wouldn’t be spending Karen’s birthday with her.
A birthday she had voluntarily refused to attend.
Karen listened for nearly ten minutes.
Then she said, “You could still come.”
I looked at her.
“Yes, without Mark if he’s uncomfortable.”
Another pause.
“Or come earlier. Or after dinner. We could have coffee. Di, this doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”
Apparently it did.
When the call ended, Karen sat holding the phone.
“She says I don’t understand how excluded they feel.”
I couldn’t help myself.
“They excluded themselves.”
“Please don’t.”
“It’s your birthday.”
“I know what day it is.”
Her voice cracked.
That shut me up.
The kids came in with breakfast fifteen minutes later.
Luke carried a tray with toast, scrambled eggs, and strawberries. Emily brought coffee.
“Happy birthday, Mom,” she said.
Karen smiled.
A real smile, though small.
And I decided then that Diane and Mark were done occupying the morning.
We ate in bed.
Luke presented Karen with a homemade coupon book that included “one free dishwasher unloading,” “one dog walk,” and, mysteriously, “one argument you automatically win.”
Emily gave her a framed photograph of the four of us taken at the lake the previous summer.
Karen held it for a long time.
In the photo, none of us knew I had cancer yet.
Maybe that should have made it sad.
Instead, Karen kissed Emily’s forehead.
“I love it.”
By afternoon, the dining table was covered with ingredients.
Luke’s board looked like a convenience store after a tornado.
Emily made fruit arranged by color.
I built a meat-and-cheese board and pretended I knew what I was doing.
Karen made dessert.
Chocolate-covered pretzels.
Caramels.
Strawberries.
Shortbread.
And, yes, a small bowl of pistachios.
She paused before putting it down.
I watched her.
“You sure?”
She looked at the bowl.
Then at me.
“I’m sure.”
We turned on old Motown records. Luke danced badly on purpose. Emily took pictures. Karen laughed when I tried to cut salami into roses and produced something that looked like a damaged sea creature.
There were empty chairs at the table.
Karen noticed them.
So did I.
But gradually something changed.
Their absence stopped feeling like a wound.
It became space.
After dinner, the children brought out a small cake.
Forty-two candles would’ve been a fire hazard, so they used four big candles and two small ones.
Karen closed her eyes to make a wish.
I watched her face in the candlelight.
I knew what I wished for.
More birthdays.
Ten.
Twenty.
Enough that forty-two would become ordinary in our memories.
When she blew out the candles, Emily cheered.
Luke shouted, “No boyfriends with allergies were harmed in the making of this birthday!”
Karen stared at him.
I stared at him.
Then all four of us burst out laughing.
It was inappropriate.
It was exactly what we needed.
Later, after the kids went upstairs, Karen and I cleaned the kitchen together.
“Was it awful?” I asked.
She looked around at the wreckage of crackers, fruit stems, wrappers, wine glasses, and crumbs.
“No.”
“Was it good?”
Her eyes softened.
“It was wonderful.”
Then she leaned against the counter.
“I just wish Diane had been here.”
I took her hand.
“I know.”
“She could’ve come without Mark.”
“I know.”
“She could’ve stopped by this morning.”
“Yes.”
“She could’ve brought him later after we’d cleaned everything.”
“Yes.”
Karen swallowed.
“So why didn’t she?”
That was the question beneath everything.
This wasn’t really about nuts anymore.
Maybe it never had been.
