“Desmond believes adults don’t need birthday celebrations.”

Another silence.

Much colder this time.

Then she hung up.

Less than a minute later, Desmond’s phone rang again.

Lorna was shouting loudly enough that I could hear pieces of the conversation.

“What is happening?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What kind of birthday is this?”

Desmond disappeared into the garage.

When he returned, he looked furious.

“Where are my presents?”

I almost respected the directness.

“There aren’t any.”

“You seriously got me nothing?”

“I thought gifts were childish.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I agree.”

“You’re being petty.”

I put down the knife.

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re trying to punish me.”

“No. I’m treating your birthday exactly the way you’ve treated mine.”

He immediately shook his head.

“That’s completely different.”

“How?”

“I’ve never forgotten your birthday.”

For a moment, I thought I had heard him incorrectly.

“What did you just say?”

“I said I have never forgotten your birthday. Maybe I don’t make a huge spectacle out of it, but you’re acting like I ignored you every year.”

I stared at him.

Desmond had always been talented at remembering past events in whichever version made him look best.

But this was ambitious even for him.

“You forgot last year.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You spent the day golfing.”

“I probably wished you happy birthday before I left.”

“You didn’t.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I do.”

He threw his hands up.

“See? You’re keeping score.”

I walked toward the bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“To get something.”

At the bottom of my dresser was a black notebook.

The earliest entry inside was nine years old.

I hadn’t started it because I planned to use it against Desmond someday.

I started because after enough conversations with him, I no longer trusted my own memory.

Maybe I really was too sensitive.

Maybe he had acknowledged my birthday and I’d forgotten.

Maybe asking for dinner or a card really did make me unreasonable.

So I began writing things down.

Dates.

Conversations.

Exact sentences.

What Desmond said.

What I said.

What happened afterward.

I carried the notebook into the kitchen.

Desmond stared at it.

“What’s that?”

“My memory.”

I opened the first marked page.

“Thirty-third birthday. You worked late. When I told you what day it was, you said we were adults and birthdays were for kids.”

His mouth tightened.

I turned another page.

“Thirty-fourth. You forgot again. When I said I wished you’d planned dinner, you told me that if I wanted to eat somewhere, I should have made the reservation myself.”

Another page.

“Thirty-fifth. I asked whether you’d bought me anything. You said being married to you was my present.”

His expression went blank.

“That was obviously a joke.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

He looked away.

I continued.

Thirty-six.

Thirty-seven.

Thirty-eight.

Each forgotten birthday.

Every dismissive comment.

Every conversation where I tried to explain that it hurt.

Finally, Desmond said,

“I don’t remember saying half of that.”

“I do.”

“That doesn’t prove everything happened exactly the way you’ve written it.”

“I usually wrote these entries the same night.”

He stared at the notebook.

Then he tried a new argument.

“My birthday is different.”

I waited.

“How?”

“A man’s birthday means something different.”

I actually laughed.

He frowned.

“I’m serious.”

“Then explain what that means.”

He crossed his arms.

“Men provide for their families.”

I laughed again.

Not because it was funny.

Because otherwise I might have thrown something.

“Desmond, our salaries are almost identical.”

Silence.

“We split the mortgage.”

Nothing.

“The utilities.”

Nothing.

“Insurance. Groceries. Vacations. Everything.”

For the first time, I saw uncertainty behind his irritation.

For nine years, he had always been able to explain why my hurt wasn’t reasonable.

Now nine years of his own words were sitting on the kitchen counter.

His phone buzzed.