And now it’s over, although F. insists on making this a
weeklong birthday celebration, culminating in dinner out Saturday night, and
who am I to turn down being fussed over so?
But nothing will top last night: Home after walking the dog,
the table set for sushi (my birthday request) and Chinese take-out, I went to
open the closed bathroom door and found R. hiding inside, home from college to
surprise me for birthday dinner. And then, a “card” from E., hand-scribbled on torn
out spiral notebook paper, so beautifully written and full of love that I
couldn’t stop hugging him.
Finally, from F., an exquisite card with just the words I’d
longed to hear about our love—his love—20 years into this marriage.
Middle age be damned. It just doesn’t get better than this.
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