And again.

Friends from his softball group were texting, wondering what was happening that evening and why there had been no birthday group chat.

Desmond looked from the phone to me.

I think that was the moment he finally understood I wasn’t going to save his birthday.

I closed the notebook.

And for once, I didn’t apologize.

I didn’t soften my voice.

I didn’t rescue him from his own discomfort.

I simply allowed the truth to remain in the room.

Desmond apparently decided that the solution to one disappointing birthday was to throw himself another one.

The following Saturday, he created an online event and invited nearly everyone we knew.

He bought balloons.

Beer.

Chips.

A grocery-store cake.

Then he spent the evening looking through the front window every few minutes, apparently expecting dozens of people to suddenly appear.

Curtis arrived around seven-thirty carrying a six-pack.

Nobody else came.

For nearly two hours, Curtis worked heroically to keep the conversation alive while Desmond refreshed the event page and checked his phone.

Everyone was probably running late, he said.

By nine-thirty, even that explanation had become embarrassing.

Curtis finally left.

Desmond sat beneath several sagging balloons with an untouched cake on the coffee table.

I went upstairs.

I didn’t save that evening either.

The next morning, he found me making coffee.

“Maybe I overreacted.”

I waited.

“We should go back to normal.”

“What does normal mean?”

He looked frustrated.

“You know. Before this. When things were good.”

I looked at him.

“Things were good for you.”

That stopped him briefly.

Then he began rewriting history again.

Nine forgotten birthdays became “a few missed dates.”

Now he claimed he had probably wished me happy birthday most years.

So I brought the notebook back.

This time, I handed it to him.

Desmond sat on the edge of our bed and read silently for almost ten minutes.

Page after page.

Dates.

His words.

My reactions.

My attempts to explain how much it hurt.

Finally, he looked up.

“You’ve been keeping all this so you could use it against me someday?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because after enough conversations with you, I started wondering whether I was remembering my own life incorrectly.”

His expression shifted.

I explained that each year the same thing happened.

He would forget.

I would be hurt.

He would tell me I was overreacting.

Then I would begin doubting myself.

Maybe I really was too emotional.

Maybe I was expecting too much.

The notebook existed because I needed something that stopped me from rewriting my own experiences just to make him comfortable.

Desmond switched strategies.

“If birthdays were this important, you should have communicated that better.”

I opened the notebook to several entries where I had.

“Then you should’ve pushed harder.”

I stared at him.

“How many times was I supposed to explain the same pain before you decided it mattered?”

He had no answer.

For three days, we barely spoke.

Desmond slept in the spare bedroom.

Then Lorna called.

She accused me of punishing her son over something petty.

Marriage required sacrifice, she informed me.

I needed to be more understanding.

Desmond worked hard.

Eventually, she started lecturing me about compromise.

I interrupted.