Chapter 2 - The Secret Sanctuary and the First Spark of Independence
My birthday arrived on a Thursday. I took the day off work and didn't tell Desmond. Instead of spending another year waiting to see whether he remembered, I drove across town and spent the afternoon at a spa.
I paid from a savings account Desmond knew nothing about.
For almost a year, I had quietly moved twenty dollars here, thirty dollars there into that account. Nothing dramatic. I hadn't been plotting an escape or preparing for some grand showdown. I simply wanted money that belonged only to me, something small and private in a marriage where most of my energy seemed to belong to everyone else.
I got a massage, sat in a steam room, ate lunch alone, and read half a novel in a robe so fluffy I briefly considered stealing it.
It was the best birthday I'd had in years.
I came home relaxed and almost cheerful.
Desmond looked at me for a long moment and asked, “Did you do something with your hair?”
“No.”
“Huh.”
Then he asked what we were having for dinner.
I made it.
But something had changed.
For years, I had treated every forgotten birthday like an isolated disappointment. That year I finally saw the pattern. Desmond wasn't bad at birthdays. He was excellent at birthdays when they belong to him.
So I stopped compensating for him.
His birthday came a few months later.
That morning, Desmond remained in bed longer than usual. I could hear him shifting around while I showered and got dressed for work. Normally I would have appeared with coffee, eggs, toast, and some little present to start the day.
Instead, I walked downstairs and poured myself cereal.
Eventually he wandered into the kitchen wearing sweatpants and socks.
He looked at the table.
Then at the stove.
Then at me.
“Where’s breakfast?”
“In the refrigerator, probably.”
He frowned. “My birthday breakfast.”
I took a bite of cereal.
“What about it?”
Desmond stared at me.
“It's my birthday.”
I gave him the same puzzled expression he had given me so many times.
“Oh.”
He waited.
I drank my coffee.
Finally I said, “I thought we were too old to make a fuss over birthdays. Aren’t birthdays for children?”
His face changed slowly, almost comically, like a computer trying to process corrupted data.
“What?”
“Those are your words.”
“I know what I said, but—”
“So we're agreeing.”
“No, we’re not agreeing.”
I picked up my purse.
“Have a good Wednesday.”
He followed me halfway to the door.
“You didn't get me anything?”
May you like
I smiled.
“Wouldn't that be childish?”
