For nine years, my husband treated my birthday like an ordinary date on the calendar.

Then his birthday came around, and he expected breakfast in bed, presents, dinner reservations, and some kind of celebration involving practically everyone we knew.

That year, I gave him exactly what he had given me for almost a decade.

Nothing.

When he stared at me in disbelief, I repeated the words he had used on me countless times:

“Aren’t birthdays supposed to be for children?”

He called me cruel.

Then he insisted he had never actually forgotten my birthdays.

So I went to our bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of my dresser, and brought out the notebook I had been keeping for nine years.

By the time I finished reading from it, my husband had stopped arguing.

Every year, my birthday passed through our house almost unnoticed.

Desmond would wake up, take a shower, go to work, come home, drop his keys in the bowl by the door, and ask what I was making for dinner.

If my birthday landed on a Saturday or Sunday, there was a decent chance he’d spend several hours golfing before settling onto the couch with the television.

Eventually, I would remind him.

Sometimes after dinner.

Sometimes when I could no longer stand waiting.

“It’s my birthday today.”

Desmond always seemed mildly surprised.

Then he’d shrug.

“We’re adults. Why do people our age need a whole production over birthdays?”

According to my husband, cakes were unnecessary.

Flowers were silly.

Cards were pointless.

Presents were childish.

Adults had mortgages, bills, work, and responsibilities.

We were supposedly too mature to need evidence that the person we married had remembered one important date.

That philosophy applied beautifully to my birthday.

His birthday was another matter entirely.

Desmond began talking about his birthday weeks in advance.

Sometimes months.

Links would start arriving on my phone.

A fishing reel.

A leather jacket.

Tools.

Outdoor equipment.

One year, he sent me a link to a grill that cost nearly as much as our mortgage.

He even maintained a list of possible gifts on his phone.

And Desmond cared deeply about presentation.

Gift bags, according to him, showed a lack of effort.

Cheap wrapping paper looked careless.

Those little adhesive bows from drugstores were apparently unacceptable.

Fabric ribbon was preferable.

I knew this because I once wrapped a fishing reel with ordinary curling ribbon and endured an entire lecture about how presentation showed thoughtfulness.

The irony apparently escaped him.

For his thirty-ninth birthday, he told me he wanted a surprise party.

Yes.

He requested his own surprise.

And I gave him one.

I spent months organizing everything.

I booked a private room at his favorite brewery.

I invited nearly sixty people.

I arranged the food.

I contacted friends.

I ordered a cake designed to look like the fishing boat he had dreamed about buying for years.

I even hired a photographer because Desmond had complained at previous events that nobody ever took enough candid photographs of him.

His best friend Curtis helped me get him to the brewery without ruining the surprise.

When the doors opened and everyone shouted, Desmond looked genuinely emotional.

He hugged me.

Later that night, he told several people I was the kind of wife every man wished he had.

For weeks afterward, he talked about the party.

He told coworkers how incredible it had been.

He told friends how lucky he was.

He told anyone willing to listen that his wife knew exactly how to make him feel special.

Three weeks later, I turned thirty-seven.

Desmond spent the day at a golf tournament.

Several men at that tournament had eaten the appetizers I’d ordered for his birthday party.

They had posed beside the custom boat cake.

Desmond left that morning without saying a word about my birthday.

He returned around nine.

He dropped his cap on the counter, looked around the kitchen, and asked,

“Why didn’t you make dinner?”

I stared at him.

“Because it’s my birthday.”

He blinked.

Then he said,

“You should’ve reminded me.”

That was it.

No apology.

No attempt to fix the evening.

He opened a beer and turned on television.

That was birthday number eight.

By then, I knew every excuse.

He was busy.

Dates were difficult for him.

I expected too much.

If I wanted dinner, I should have made a reservation.

If I wanted a gift, I should have told him exactly what to buy.

If I cared so much, I should have reminded him.

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