Three years of lonely birthdays at a quiet restaurant pushed me to end my marriage to Michael. The warm lights and soft music couldn’t hide the empty chair across from me. On my last birthday, the waiter’s kind, “Ready to order?” broke me. “I’m leaving,” I said, leaving the candle burning and walking out. Michael caught me outside, tie askew. “I’m sorry, Rachel,” he said. “Work ran late.” I shook my head. “Three years, Michael. Three missed birthdays. I’m done.” I told him divorce was coming and walked away, the night air sharp.
After the divorce, I was organizing books when Michael’s mom, Ruth, knocked. She looked fragile, not her usual stern self. “You deserve to know,” she said, handing me an address. “Go see.” I drove to a cemetery, the silence thick. I found a gravestone: Ellie Brown, October 12, 2013 – October 12, 2022. My birthday. A tiny stuffed bunny sat nearby. Michael appeared, weary. “My daughter,” he said. “From my first marriage. She died at eight in an accident.” He visited her grave on my birthdays, unable to celebrate.
We sat on a bench, the air heavy with earth and leaves. “I thought you forgot me,” I admitted. “Never,” he said. “I loved you, but I couldn’t face both.” I nodded. “You should’ve told me.” He agreed, eyes down. “Can we try again?” I asked. “No secrets.” He nodded, hope flickering. A year later, we stood at Ellie’s grave, leaving a small cake and her photo, her smile radiant. At a diner, Michael gave me a necklace with a heart pendant. “I’m here now,” he said. I took his hand, embracing two lives, stronger together.
