Year by agonizing year. But the entry for "Eight Years" was written with such force the pen had nearly torn through the paper.
Vera went abroad eight years ago. Harrison and I married eight years ago.
My thumb traced the indented paper. Vision blurred. A heavy stone settled on my chest, making every breath a struggle. The pain in my wrist flared, syncing with the ache in my heart.
Downstairs, the front door slammed.
Blake tossed his backpack onto the sofa, didn't even take off his shoes before turning to leave again.
"Almost dinner time," I called out, gesturing to the meal I'd prepared. "Where are you going?"
He paused, turning halfway. That's when I noticed the exquisitely wrapped pink gift box in his hands.
"A classmate's birthday?"
Blake quickly hid the box behind his back, expression turning defensive. "It's Auntie Vera's birthday. Dad and I promised to get her a gift."
He looked at me, young eyes devoid of guilt. "Mom, I know it's your birthday too. But you're too old for pink gifts. They don't suit you."
The air left my lungs. My husband and son hadn't just forgotten my birthday—they'd hidden the fact that Vera was back in the country.
Harrison didn't return until ten.