I never anticipated a spectacular gesture. That wasn’t Michael, my spouse. My expectations had changed with time, and I now accept silent admiration. I always wanted him to surprise me once. That he’d plan and remember without prompting. I quit waiting this year.
I planned my birthday.
No pricey restaurants or presents. A peaceful night at home with candles, his favorite roast chicken, gentle music, and a handmade cake with my name piped in wobbly icing. I even ironed a clean white tablecloth we hadn’t used since our anniversary three years ago. I arranged our wedding china. Lighted candles. Arrangements of street market flowers.
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For myself? A basic navy-blue dress fit my waist well. First time in months I curled my hair. The perfume Michael praised while we were dating. Before the mirror, I remarked, “You look beautiful.”
It was 6:30. Everything was ready. Food was cooked on schedule, oven warm. Waiting with a drink of wine.
The door opened.
Laughter. Male voices. Loud footsteps.
Michael entered with Greg, Tyler, and Dom, carrying beer and pizza boxes. Still clutching the wine glass, I paused at the dining room archway. He looked at me, stopped, then shrugged sheepishly.
Oh—this was tonight? I forgot, babe. Guys were on their way for the game. Will we reschedule?
He turned on the TV before I could respond. Bright lights and loud sportscasters filled the living area.
The dinner table I spent all day arranging became their snack station. They placed pizza boxes on my candles, put the salad dish aside for wings, and sat with paper plates and bottles, shouting as their team scored.
I stood there, heart in my throat, watching them consume my work.
No tears. I didn’t shout.
I grinned.
I added, “Wait—I made something really special for tonight. Please wait five minutes.”
Not even looking up. One muttered, “Yeah, sure,” while eating pepperoni.
Walking upstairs, I removed the dress, put on trousers, a sweater, and flats. Removed makeup. Got my purse. I descended, stopped at the bottom of the steps, and glanced at Michael.
You’re correct. Reschedule. I’ll rejoice with kind folks.”
He looked away from the TV, bewildered. “Wait—what?”
I was already leaving.
Laura, my sister, opened the door in her pajamas with her two children on her legs. “What happened?” she questioned quickly.
He stood me up. By my hubby. For football.”
She hugged me silently.
An hour later, I was drinking wine at their kitchen table under a throw cover as her husband cooked steaks on their little patio. Laura placed out mozzarella sticks and frozen quiches on a platter like it was the Queen’s birthday. Her kids created me crayon birthday cards with dinosaurs and rocketships, which made no sense but was wonderful.
“You deserve better,” she replied softly, putting a 1-candle cupcake in front of me. “Blow it out, birthday girl.”
I closed my eyes and wished. No flowers. Not to apologize. Just to clarify.
I returned home early the following morning. The place smelled like pizza grease and cold beer. My candles melted into the tablecloth. My foil-wrapped roast chicken lay neglected on the counter.
Michael slept on the sofa.
I cleaned softly. There were no cabinet slams or loud sighs. I cleaned up, wiped the surfaces, and sat at the kitchen island.
After waking up, scratching his face and squinting, he gazed at me like a ghost.
You didn’t return.”
“No,” I answered. “I didn’t.”
Sat up straighter. Where’d you go?
“I celebrated my birthday with people who showed up.”
It was quiet. The half-cleaned living room, dirty wine glasses on the table, and melting candles caught his attention.
“I messed up,” he said. “I thought… No idea. I didn’t think.”
“That’s the issue,” I replied. You don’t think. Not my story. Not about feeling invisible in your marriage.”
He opened and closed his lips.
Stand up, grab my keys, and say, “I’m going to work.” You have some roast chicken in the fridge. If you want to experience effort.”
I received roses at work that day.
Roses. A huge bouquet with an I see you now card. So sorry.
I disregarded.
He made supper that night. The pasta burnt somewhat, but the sentiment was there. Setting the table, he used napkins. Trying to talk. My responses were brief. He seemed anxious.
I rose to clean the dishes when he said, “Can we talk?”
I sat down.
“I’ve been selfish,” he added. I slacked. Taking you for granted. I believed you would always be there. I had no idea how chilly I was.”
I remained silent. I let him talk.
“I miss you,” he whispered. You used to grin when I entered the room. How you described your dreams. I miss us.”
My throat lumped, but I kept it in.
“You forgot my birthday,” I remarked. “That goes beyond forgetting a date. That ignores me.”
“I know,” he replied. I don’t deserve immediate pardon. I want to work for it.”
The next week, he changed. He checked in via phone throughout the day. Got me coffee at work. He asked about my day and listened. He reserved a seat at a French cafe I recommended months ago on Friday. He remembered.
A reservation was made for Mrs. Ellison’s birthday—rescheduled but not forgotten.
On our way home beneath the streetlights, he grabbed my hand and remarked, “You know, I thought your roast chicken smelled amazing. I simply… Was unaware of what I was giving away.”
I regarded him. Still, you might.”
“I won’t,” he said. “Not again.”
Months passed.
We began treatment. It was hard. Some sessions exhausted us. Others inspired hope. We improved communication and learnt to ask for what we needed without animosity.
Notes began appearing in my lunch bag. Sometimes a heart, sometimes a book line he knew I enjoyed. I caught him studying my favorite flowers before our anniversary.
As for me? I stopped “just to keep the peace.” I requested assistance when required. I walked alone. I took Thursday night painting classes.
We were laying a new foundation, not simply repairing cracks.
And my birthday this year?
His day off was personal.
I arrived home to fairy lights on the terrace, quiet music, and a table with the same white tablecloth I had ironed in tears. No stains this time. He and I had two plates and fresh flowers.
On the table?
Roast chicken.
Perfect gold. Crisp skin. Lemon with rosemary, as recalled.
“I followed your recipe,” he replied anxiously. “I wanted it right.”
I kissed his cheek and murmured, “It’s perfect.”
Because he came this time.
Be humble—not only with food or flowers. With shift. Love was intentionally chosen, not assumed.
And I?
Finally, I understood I wasn’t demanding too much.
I just wanted the proper guy to be my companion.
He responded this time.
Story lesson?
When you stop pleading for attention, they may eventually open their eyes. Whether they rise to meet you or fade away, you’ll know your value was never in doubt.
Just act like it.
