December 14
The fourteenth of December was Rosalind's birthday. It was not a particularly pleasant idea. In fact, she had stopped looking forward to birthdays when she turned thirty. Now, she was thirty-nine, just twelve months short of being forty. Knowing what was awaiting her at her office—a cake, birthday cards and pitying looks from younger women—she took her time getting dressed. She even considered calling in sick a second day, but it would only delay the inevitable. If she failed to go into the office, the cake, cards and looks would be waiting for her on Tuesday.
It wasn't easy, but Rosalind persevered and made it through the day. She lied when she said how delicious the cake was; it was actually far too sweet for her taste. She laughed at all the cards, even those that weren't very amusing, and even forced herself to smile at the younger women whom she was certain saw her as one of God's most pitiful creatures: an aging, single, career woman.
At least a dozen times during the day someone asked her, "Are you doing anything special for your birthday?"
It was an innocent enough question. After all, millions of people went out with friends and family to celebrate surviving another year on earth. Her fellow employees naturally assumed that even though she wasn't married, she must have formed some close relationships outside the office. They were wrong, however; all Rosalind had was her job. She had once been quite comfortable with her solitary state, but that was before she fell in love with Brett McCord.
No! her mind screamed. I won't go there. Especially not today. It's hard enough getting through my thirty-ninth birthday without remembering my thirty-eighth.
It was too late, however. The door was open, and the memories rushed in.
Eventually, the eight hours passed and the office began to clear out. Rosalind stared at the manuscript on her desk. She had made very little progress on it and swore that the following day she would give it her undivided attention. Then she put on her jacket, picked up her briefcase and went home.
This is the something special I'm doing on my birthday, she thought later that evening when she looked down at the cardboard carton of Chinese takeout she was eating. Maybe I should really live life to the fullest and put on a DVD. After all, what's dinner without a movie?
After finishing her chicken chow mein, she threw away the empty container, washed the fork and went into the living room where she stood in front of the fireplace looking up at the advent calendar. Since her secret admirer seemed to know so much about her, Rosalind wondered if he knew it was her birthday. She was betting he did, so she wasn't the least bit surprised to find a birthday card folded up inside the fourteenth drawer.
What did surprise her was what was written inside the card. It was the opening lines of a poem by Robert Browning: "Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be."
The card was not signed, but Rosalind knew the handwriting well. She'd seen it hundreds of times. It was Brett McCord's.
