That became easy.
I ignored the joke because everyone else treated it like a joke.
I ignored the way Daniel’s mother sometimes became quiet when his brothers said it.
I ignored the fact that nobody had ever actually explained why I was supposedly second.
It was easier to believe there was nothing to explain.
Then Daniel turned fifty-five.
We went to dinner with his family.
Our children came.
His mother came.
All three brothers and their wives were there.
Daniel chose his favorite steakhouse.
Dark wood.
Dim lights.
Enormous plates.
The kind of place where everyone complains they’re too full and then orders dessert anyway.
Daniel was in a good mood.
I remember watching him while everyone sang “Happy Birthday.”
He hated being the center of attention.
He sat there with the same embarrassed smile I’d seen every birthday since we met.
Our daughter was filming him.
