When I opened my eyes on my thirty-seventh birthday, I wasn’t expecting anything special.
Not because the day meant nothing to me, but because lowering my expectations had become my quiet survival strategy.
It hurt less that way.
My husband, Trevor, often said birthdays were pointless for adults.
According to him, celebrating was childish — no gifts, no attention, no effort required.
Over time, I learned to agree out loud, even if something small inside me always flinched.
That morning, he was already awake, lying beside me and scrolling through his phone.
“Morning,” I said softly.
Voir la suite dans la page suivante:
