It was my birthday again. Jake didn’t show—third year in a row. I slid divorce papers across the counter, feeling empty.
Then his mother handed me an envelope with an address. At the cemetery, I found a headstone: Anna Whitfield, Jake’s sister, died on my birthday years ago. Fresh flowers—his handwriting.
That night, Jake finally explained. He’d been driving when Anna died. His guilt kept him from celebrating my birthdays.
Weeks were hard, but we faced it together—visiting the grave, sharing stories, and slowly healing.
The next birthday, he was there. We lit candles and visited Anna’s grave together.
A year later, I was pregnant. Due date? September 12th. We named our daughter Annabelle, honoring Anna.
Now my birthday is about life, memory, grief, and joy. Secrets fester in silence, but love grows when shared.
