Of Mother's Birthday

I still remember a time when Dad used to sneak me into the kitchen the night before. He’d have a card with him, and he’d ask me to sign it, “Love, Martin and Dad.”

It wasn’t too long ago that it was an event—an excuse to take out the old credit card and eat at some swanky place.

Tonight, Mom will be having dinner with her Mother Butler colleagues, Dad will probably be working in his room, and I’ll probably be in front of this very screen typing away.

The good morning kisses exchanged earlier will likely be the only evidences of a mother’s, of a wife’s, 51st birthday.