I thanked her.
What else was I supposed to do?
Frame it?
Years later, when I told my wife about that birthday, she had looked genuinely outraged.
“Wait. You bought your own birthday cake, brought it to your parents’ house, and they forgot to sing?”
“Correct.”
“And your brother got champagne?”
“Two bottles.”
She stared at me.
“Kevin, if you ever forget my birthday, I’ll forgive you.”
I smiled.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
“After I change every password you own and sell your favorite sneakers online.”
I laughed so hard I nearly choked on my coffee.
“Remind me never to disappoint you.”
“Too late. You married me. That’s a lifelong disappointment waiting to happen.”
Then she kissed my cheek.
Her name was Molly.
Back then, I thought she was the best thing that had ever happened to me.
I had no idea that one day I’d remember that kiss and wonder how many of her other kisses had been rehearsals.
