Every year, he’d say the same thing.
“It’s just another day.”
And every year, I’d give him the same look.
“No, it isn’t.”
He’d smile.
“You’re going to make a big deal out of this again, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“I knew it.”
He hated big parties.
He hated being the center of attention.
But he loved little things.
His favorite cake.
A handwritten card.
His favorite dinner.
A ridiculous birthday mug.
Once, I’d bought him a pair of socks with tiny fire trucks on them.
He laughed for five minutes.
Then he wore them until they had holes.
So this year, when I realized his birthday was falling directly in the middle of a twenty-four-hour shift, I decided I wasn’t going to let the day disappear.
I called his favorite bakery.
I ordered the chocolate cake with the thick vanilla frosting he pretended he didn’t like.
Then I bought twelve balloons.
Six blue.
Six silver.
Across several of them were the words:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
I loaded everything into my car.
That morning, Tyler kissed me goodbye in the kitchen.
He had his coffee in one hand and his station bag over his shoulder.
“Don’t do anything crazy today,” he said.
