We sat in a curved alcove in the center of the dining room. Gold balloons were discreetly tied behind my chair, and a large cake stood nearby, decorated with pink lettering that read, "Seventy Years Strong, Evelyn." Friends from church, a few neighbors we'd known for years, and a colleague of Harold's and his wife filled the chairs around us. They toasted my health, my patience, and my devotion to my family. They told me how I never missed a school play, how my door was always open during the holidays, and how I kept everything going even when life got complicated.
I smiled and thanked them as I listened intently as memories were offered as gifts.
After the appetizers were cleared, Harold stood up and gently tapped his glass, drawing the attention of the tables around him. My stomach clenched before he even spoke.
“I’d like to say something,” he announced, his voice loud enough to command the entire room.
I looked up at him and sensed that whatever was to come would not be pleasant.
