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.
My husband treats his birthday like a performance review.
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.”
It wasn’t just a few friends over.
“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 this is important, Amber.”
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.
There were 20 dishes that Darren had insisted on.
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.
“Mommy, do you need help?”
“No, baby girl,” I said softly. “I’ve got it.”
Even though I didn’t. Not really… not anymore.
Hollis yelled for chocolate cereal.
I thought that Darren would at least offer to watch the kids while I went shopping for his birthday dinner, or offer to drive me.
He refused.
“Amber, it’s not difficult. Really, now. Do you expect me to do everything here? Just walk if you have to.”
“With three kids?” I asked. “And all the food you want me to carry back? Are you seriously asking that of me, Darren?”
He refused to even watch the kids.
He didn’t look up from his phone.
“We’re not made of gas.”
For a brief moment, I thought about throwing something at him. But I had three sets of eyes watching me, needing me to be better.
“We only have one car,” I reminded him. “You sold mine after Maisie was born.”
He didn’t look up from his phone.
“Well, you’re not working. So… where do you need to go?” he asked, finally glancing at me.
“Darren, pay attention. I said I need to go to the store to get the groceries for your party.”
“You can walk, Amber. Don’t be long. And make sure you get everything — no excuses.”
He got up, muttered something else about getting ahead on emails, and walked out of the room.
“You can walk, Amber. Don’t be long.”
I stood in the doorway with the list still in my hand, Maisie tugging at my pant leg and Hollis trying to climb onto the hallway table.
“Mommy,” Junie said. “Can I come and help carry stuff?”
I looked at her and exhaled through my nose.
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks, baby. Of course, you can help.”
“Can I come and help carry stuff?”
The morning was bitter. Wind pushed against us like it had something to prove. I wrapped Maisie tight, strapped her into the stroller, and handed Hollis the list like it was a treasure map.
Junie walked close beside me, chatting softly about nothing at all — the color of the clouds, the school spelling bee, and whether or not the chocolate milk would be on sale.
By the time we reached the store, my fingers were numb and my patience fraying. But I smiled, and I cracked jokes about cereal names and let the kids help choose between red and green grapes.
The morning was bitter.
When the cart was full, too full to push alongside a stroller, I made two mental piles: things my children could eat versus things Darren had demanded for his dinner.
Packing and carrying the groceries felt like an extreme task, but what choice did I have? Anything crushable went into the stroller basket, and everything else was divided between bags I could loop over my shoulders.
Junie carefully held the eggs in her lap on the way back.
What choice did I have?
“Hold them like… they’re something precious, my girl,” I told her.
“I will, Mommy.”
We didn’t make it three blocks before the incident happened.
My boot hit a patch of ice — no warning, no time to adjust. One moment I was upright, the next I was midair, trying to twist mid-fall so I wouldn’t crush the stroller.
We didn’t make it far before the incident happened.
I landed hard, arm-first, and pain exploded through me like a flare.
Bags flew, jars rolled, and I heard something crack; maybe it was the eggs that Junie dropped, maybe it was me. Maisie shrieked, Hollis stood frozen, his mouth open in horror. Junie knelt beside me immediately, grabbing my hand, her little voice shaking.
“Mommy! Mommy? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, chickens,” I said, though the pain made me nauseous. “It’s okay, baby. It’s just — ow, okay. Help me sit up, Junie.”
… pain exploded through me like a flare.
A woman across the street came running.
“I saw you fall, sweetie! Can I help?”
“Urgent care, please,” I managed to say, cradling my arm. “I think… it’s broken.”
She helped me gather the bags, and the woman with her offered to drive us.
I didn’t argue.
“I think… it’s broken.”
At urgent care, while the kids flipped through old magazines and nibbled on the store-bought crackers, I sat with Maisie curled on my lap and my arm cradled against my chest.
The nurse confirmed it: my arm was fractured. It was a clean fracture, thankfully, but I’d need a cast and six weeks of limited movement.
“You’re in for a painful few weeks, hon. But we’re going to send you home with some strong painkillers for the first few days. And you have to promise that you’re going to take it easy.”
The nurse confirmed it: my arm was fractured.
I texted Darren while the nurse gave the kids lollipops.
“I slipped on the way back from the store. At the hospital now. My arm is fractured.”
A few minutes passed.
Then his reply came through like a slap in the face.
A few minutes passed.
“So… does this mean that you’re not cooking? Seriously? What time will you be home? I’m busy.”
I stared at the screen, blinked once, and let the silence stretch out inside me.
“Mommy?” Junie asked, looking up at me.
“Yeah, baby? You’re okay?”
“You’re crying…”
“What time will you be home?”
I touched my cheek. She was right.
I went home and cooked anyway. It wasn’t because I wanted to, believe me. But it was just easier than explaining why I couldn’t. Or why I shouldn’t have to.
Everything took twice as long. I used my hip to shut the fridge, my knees to bump cabinets closed, and my teeth to tear open the packets I couldn’t grip. The cast made everything clumsy and heavy.
Everything took twice as long.
Maisie cried whenever I moved too far from her. Hollis wanted to “help,” which meant stirring aggressively and eating shredded cheese by the handful. Junie sat at the counter with her coloring book open, barely touching her crayons.
She watched me closely every night.
One afternoon, a mixing bowl slipped from my arm and clattered to the floor.
She watched me closely every night.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispered. “It’s not good, Mommy.”
“I know, sweet girl,” I said, feeling the exhaustion sink into my bones.
“Then why are you? Can’t Dad help?”
I didn’t have a good answer.
“It’s not good, Mommy.”
Darren started working later. Or so he said. In the days leading up to his birthday, he wore the expensive cologne that I wasn’t allowed to touch in case I dropped it.
He laughed at texts when he thought I wasn’t looking. He didn’t notice that the baby clung to me tighter every night. And that Junie had started biting her nails again — something she’d stopped a long time ago.
He didn’t notice every time I winced.
Then one night, while he was in the shower, his phone buzzed on the table.
He didn’t notice every time I winced.
I glanced, then picked it up.
“Tomorrow again, D?”
“What the heck is this?” I muttered, opening the thread.
“You smell like sugar and smoke, two of my favorite things…”
“Tomorrow again, D?”
“I’m still thinking about yesterday, Rach. It was nice… having my house to ourselves.”
“Tell her you’re working late. I want more time with you.”
The number wasn’t saved. But I knew exactly who “Rach” was. So, while I had been in the emergency room, he had been with her?
I knew the lipstick she wore, the deliveries she got, and how she’d been waving too enthusiastically recently.
I closed the phone, walked back into the kitchen, and pulled the lamb from the fridge to marinate.
The number wasn’t saved.
The night before the party, I stood at the sink, waiting for the dishwasher to finish its cycle. I was fighting over sending a text. I did it anyway.
“Hi Rachel, just confirming. 6:30 p.m. tomorrow. I can’t wait to catch up — bring wine if you’d like!”
She replied five minutes later:
“Of course, Amber! So excited to be included.”
I was fighting over sending a text.
The house looked beautiful. The tablecloths were pressed, napkins were folded neatly, and platters shimmered under the dim light, garnished with herbs no one would eat. I’d spent hours arranging things I could barely lift.
I wore a pale blue dress.
“You look like a princess,” Junie said, zipping me into my dress.
“No, baby. I’m just someone who is done pretending.”
“You look like a princess,” Junie said.
The guests arrived like clockwork — Darren’s team, his boss, his parents, and a few couples from his curated life. Laughter bounced off the walls, and people complimented the food.
“This is amazing!” someone said. “Did you do all this yourself?”
“I did,” I said, smiling. “With a little help from resentment and caffeine.”
Everyone laughed but Darren; he just gripped his wine glass tighter.
“Did you do all this yourself?”
Then Rachel walked in with her perfectly curled hair, bright lipstick, and a bottle of wine like it was a hostess gift, not a loaded weapon.
Darren’s eyes widened.
“You invited her? Why?” he whispered.
“She’s part of the… neighborhood,” I said, and walked away.
“You invited her? Why?“
After dinner, I stood with a glass in hand.
“If I could say a few words,” I began, meeting Darren’s eyes. “Thirty-six looks good on you. You’ve built a life that impresses people.”
There was polite clapping.
“You’ve made friends, climbed ladders, and… I’ve been lucky to support you — to serve, to smile, and to hold it all together.”
“Thirty-six looks good on you.”
Rachel blinked, her gaze flicking to Darren.
“I cooked this dinner one-handed,” I added, louder. “It took me a few days. I slipped on the ice walking home from the store with the kids. Darren was home, attending to his emails.”
The table went still.
“I texted him from urgent care. And his only reply was about whether I was still able to cook or not,” I paused for a moment. “But I did cook. Even the darn shrimp cocktail…”
“I cooked this dinner one-handed.”
The silence was deafening.
“And then I saw a thread of texts… revealing the birthday boy’s affair. Welcome, Rachel.”
My husband stood too quickly.
“It’s a joke! Amber is just joking with you all!”
Rachel looked like she’d swallowed glass.
“I saw a thread of texts… revealing the birthday boy’s affair.”
“No, I’m really not. Now, who’s ready for cake? Rachel, why don’t you help me bring it to the table?”
Rachel picked up her purse and ran out the door.
Later, Darren cornered me in the kitchen.
“You think this is clever?” he snapped.
“Now, who’s ready for cake?”
“No, that was me telling you that I want a divorce.”
“You can’t leave me, Amber! You can’t leave this house. You’ll have nothing!”
“I have my kids and my savings. Now, maybe you should go and see if Rachel is okay.”
He scoffed, turned, and walked out; moments later, I heard the front door bang.
In the end, Darren wanted a feast to prove his worth. What he got was a table full of truth — and a wife who finally walked away.
“I have my kids and my savings.”
