It’s another blustery day. The beagle’s snoring and the kids are making a pink and yellow toadstool cake covered in edible fairies.
I’ve finished my jigsaw of Haleakala Volcano, and am demolishing the sudoku when I notice the date on the newspaper.
Sixteen years has taught me not to play cute with the knowledge.
‘Wedding anniversary this Friday, sweetie. Where do you want to take me?’
He looks up from the paper. ‘Ken’s on his own Friday night. I thought maybe we should do something with-’
Whatever he’s about to say is drowned out by by the jeers from the eleven and thirteen year olds. Even they know you can’t take a mountain biking buddy out on your anniversary.
Even they know that would be a terrible way to end a sixteen-year dream run. I make this clear in single syllable words.
‘I’m going to tell Ken you said that,’ he says.
You do that, I tell him, and go back to my soduko. I’m sure that Ken will understand.