The Birthday Party

I tie the last balloon to the back of the chair, stepping back to admire my work. Blue and silver ribbons curl around the edges of the table, and the banner — carefully ironed to smooth out last year’s creases — stretches across the wall: Happy Birthday, Daniel! 

This display was more for me than it was Daniel. Unfortunately, there was nothing more the man hated than celebrating his birthday, but what sort of wife would I be if I didn’t at least acknowledge it. Besides, celebrating Daniel was easy. He was kind, charming, funny, and the most gorgeous man I’d ever laid eyes on. I still pinch myself every time I remember that I’m his wife. 

Looking around, I see everything laid out exactly as I planned it. The cake, sitting centerfold at the table, its frosting meticulously spread, though I’m now realizing the edges are a bit uneven. As much as I’d love to fix it, the brief glance at the clock tells me that’s not possible. 6:47 and he’s always home by seven. Great. 

As I make my way over to the oven, I can’t help but take in the smell of vanilla and burnt sugar. When Daniel and I first started dating, I’d tried to impress him on his birthday by making cinnamon cookies. Everything was going perfectly until I forgot about them being in the oven and the aftermath consisted of 12 burnt, no charred, cookies. Humiliated, I wanted to crawl into a hole and stay there forever, but Daniel, being the angel that he is, ate every single one.  

Burnt cookies became a birthday staple every year that followed. Daniel loved his traditions and even though he hated his birthday, this he never hated the burnt cookies. 

With everything basically ready, I rush to set the table. Two plates, two forks, two glasses. I pour his drink first, a splash of whiskey with one ice cube. Next, is mine, and although the whiskey is tempting, I pour my glass of water. 

The candles are next. Twenty-nine this year. I stick them into the cake one by one, counting out loud to make sure I get it right.

6:58 p.m.

Sitting down, I make sure to smooth out the wrinkles in my dress. It’s the same one I wore for his 27th birthday dinner, the one he said brought out the color in my eyes. 

7:05 p.m.

He’s late. I tell myself that traffic must be bad. Maybe he stopped to pick up flowers, or he lost track of time at the office. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’d grown accustomed to Daniel’s surprises and maybe today was no different. He always was unpredictable. 

7:20 p.m.

I light the candles anyway, their glow flickering across the dim room. The flames reflect in the window, dancing against the dark sky.

I take a deep breath and start singing.

“Happy birthday to you… Happy birthday to you…”

My voice cracks, but I keep going. I have to. 

“Happy birthday, dear Daniel… Happy birthday to you.”

I close my eyes, holding the moment in my chest. The quiet hum of the fridge. The faint ticking of the clock. The way the room feels so full and empty all at once.

I blow out the candles, and smoke curls into the air.

7:42 p.m.

I wait a little longer, just in case. A part of me knows he won’t be back anytime soon, but I let myself dream. Just for a moment. 

Dreams are where I prefer to stay these days because there, in my own little fantasy, everything is just right. 

Eventually, I gather the plates and wrap the cake in plastic. I leave his drink untouched. I can’t bring myself to pour it out. I’m tempted to drink it, but I made myself and Daniel a promise. 

After what happened, I just can’t do it. 

Before bed, I take down the banner and fold it carefully, placing it back in the box under the bed. I make sure to place his card and gift in there as well. I leave the balloons, they’ll deflate on their own. 

I brush my teeth and slip into pajamas, the house settling into silence around me.

I climb into bed and turn on the lamp. On the nightstand sits a framed photo: Daniel, grinning with frosting on his nose, holding up the cake from his 27th birthday. I trace the edge of the frame with my finger, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Happy birthday, my love,” I whisper.

The lamp flickers once, then steadies. I close my eyes and imagine him beside me, the way his arm would drape over my waist, how his smell of cedarwood and coffee always counteracted my vanilla and whiskey. 

A bad memory comes, one that’s held hostage in my mind. The tumbler of whiskey I had filled to the brim. The call from Daniel asking me to pick him up from work after his battery died. Me not wanting to admit that I was drunk at 6pm. The anger from the skies as it wailed the entirety of the drive to his office. The disappointment and judgment that poured out of Daniel the minute he realized I was drunk. Me refusing to pull over until we got to the main road, my stubbornness finally wearing off. Daniel, walking in front of the car to get to the driver’s seat and me just scooting over. The car that came out of nowhere, ripping my Daniel from me. 

They say that pain fades, but I disagree. Pain is a drug that once injected, overtakes you for the rest of your life. Just when you think you're cured, you hear a person laugh and just for a minute your transported back. Back to a time when the person you loved so deeply was always by your side, instead of in your dreams.

I open my eyes and try to focus on anything else, but the silence eats me alive. The house is quiet. Just like it has been for the past two years.