On my birthday, I sat alone at a candlelit table for two—again. Three years, three no-shows, and one late husband who always had excuses. But that night, I’d had enough.
I told him it was over… and I thought I meant it—until I learned the truth he’d been hiding. The corner booth was tucked away, just like I liked it. Far enough from the noise, close enough to the window to watch the world move by.
The brick walls gave off a kind of cozy hush, like they were holding in secrets. Old jazz played from overhead, soft and slow, like a heartbeat. I used to love that place.
The candle on my table flickered, the wax forming a little pool at the base. It was halfway gone—just like the wine in my glass. The seat across from me sat empty, untouched.
Not even a crease in the napkin. The waiter had already come by twice. Each time, he asked with a kind smile if I was ready to order.
Each time, I’d said, “Just a few more minutes.”
But when he came a third time, his smile changed. It was the kind you give someone you’re beginning to feel sorry for. “Are you ready to order, ma’am?” he asked gently.
I didn’t look up right away. I just stared at the empty seat. Then I blinked, forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes, and said, “I’ll be leaving soon.”
He nodded, stepping back with quiet grace, but I could feel it—the pity floating in the space where a celebration should’ve been.
I folded my napkin carefully, like it mattered. Slipped my purse over my shoulder. My heels echoed on the tile like a clock ticking too loud.
I passed tables filled with couples clinking glasses, laughing softly, lost in each other. Outside, the night air bit at my skin. It was the kind of cold that made you feel awake, even when you didn’t want to be.
“Sarah!”
I froze. I turned. And there he was.
Mark. My husband. Out of breath, tie crooked, hair windblown.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “There was traffic and I—”
“No,” I said. The words stuck in my throat like ice.
“You don’t get to do this again.”
“I tried—”
“You’ve tried for three years, Mark. Three birthdays. Each time you were ‘busy,’ or ‘late,’ or ‘forgot.’ I’m done.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I don’t care.” My voice broke, but I kept it steady.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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