When I turned forty, I didn’t want a party. Grief had taken up so much space in my heart, it felt like there was no room left for balloons or cake. I’d lost both of my parents that year—my mother in January, my father just five months later. Even surrounded by people who cared about me, I felt hollow. I’d still catch myself reaching for the phone to call them, only to remember—no one would answer. That silence was heavier than any crowd.
Mara, my wife, gently refused to let the day pass in sadness. “You need this,” she said. “Just something small. Close friends, good food, some laughs. You deserve that.” I agreed—not because I was excited, but because I trusted her.
We kept it simple. A backyard barbecue. Nothing fancy—just people I loved, grilled food, and string lights casting a soft glow as evening settled in.
Everything was ready. The lawn trimmed, chairs out, the firepit set. I told myself maybe this would help. Maybe joy and sorrow could share the same space.
At five sharp, the first guest arrived. Mark, always the loud one, grinned as he held up a sleek black gift bag. “Hope you like it dark,” he joked.
I chuckled, even if I didn’t understand the reference. Jess and Tyler followed, also carrying black-wrapped gifts. “What’s with the gothic theme?” I asked. Jess only smiled and said, “You’ll see.”
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