When Amber is expected to pull off her husband’s perfect birthday while juggling three kids and a fractured marriage, she does what she’s always done: she endures. But as small humiliations stack and quiet truths surface, Amber realizes some celebrations are better served with honesty…
My husband, Darren, treats his birthday like a performance review — one where the world is invited and I’m in charge of the PowerPoint, catering, and applause.
Every February, the house becomes his stage. The food has to be “restaurant-level.” And of course, the wine must “pair well” with every course.
His cologne?
It was sprayed with the precision of a man preparing for battle or boardroom flattery.
This year, he decided on a party — a fancy, catered party.
It wasn’t just a few friends over, either.
It was a full-blown, image-polishing, impression-making dinner party. Naturally, I was the caterer, event planner, and babysitter rolled into one.
“We’ll do it here, Amber,” he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror.
“It will be more… personal.”
“Who’s coming?” I asked, already knowing the answer would be ridiculous.
“I’ve started inviting people, but I’m still trying to figure out who else to invite. Maybe a few execs.
Maybe the VP.
I’ll decide soon. But this is important, Amber.
I need you to take it seriously.”
“Right,” I murmured. “So… you want me to cook for all of them?”
“Yes, I wrote the menu down,” he said, brushing past me.
“It’s in the kitchen.”
But it wasn’t a list; it was a manifesto.
There were 20 dishes that Darren had insisted on.
Not snacks — but elaborate meals. Two different types of roasts, shrimp cocktail, starters and sides, and three separate desserts.
He wanted hand-piped cannolis and a Pinterest-level dip I once cried over trying to make.
Maisie was teething. Hollis had drawn on the fridge with black permanent marker, and Junie was eight going on eighty.
She watched me constantly — the way I moved, the way I didn’t sit down to relax, and the way her father never helped me.
I stood there with the list in one hand and a half-folded onesie in the other.
The baby monitor crackled — Maisie was up. Hollis yelled for chocolate cereal. And Junie, the calm in the storm, tugged my sleeve.
“No, baby girl,” I said softly.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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