When I woke up on my thirty-seventh birthday, I expected very little—over the years, birthdays had become less about celebration and more about pretending
When I woke up on my thirty-seventh birthday, I expected very little—over the years, birthdays had become less about celebration and more about pretending that I didn’t care. My husband, Trevor, had always dismissed birthdays as “childish,” saying adults shouldn’t expect gifts or surprises. I’d learned to accept it, or at least, I thought I had.
That morning, I rolled over in bed to find Trevor scrolling through his phone. “Morning,” I said softly. He grunted, not looking up.
“Morning. You might wanna get up early today. The guys are coming over to watch the game.”
I blinked.
“Today? But… It’s Saturday. And it’s my—”
“I know it’s your birthday,” he said, smirking.
“Relax. I got you something.”
I sat up, a flicker of hope stirring. Maybe he’d finally remembered that I wasn’t just the housemaid or the one who handled the bills and cooked his meals.
Trevor reached to the side of the bed, pulled out a tall, thin box wrapped lazily in grocery-store paper, and handed it to me. “Go on,” he said, grinning. I tore off the paper.
Inside was a brand-new mop. Not even a nice one—just one of those cheap ones from the discount store. He laughed loudly, clearly proud of himself.
“Now you can finally stop complaining about how the old one squeaks!”
I stared at him, my face burning. “A mop. You bought me a mop for my birthday.”
“Well, yeah.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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