“I’m forty. That ship might have sailed for me.”
Zebb nods and we hear a door slam.
“Maybe I should have taken you out for a birthday dinner with a kid-free zone.” He chuckles. “But I just didn’t want to wait for another open night, and school nights are difficult to get a sitter.”
I step closer to the island. “I’m honored to be here, Zebb. I don’t need to go out to dinner. This might be the best birthday I’ve ever had.”
He slowly smiles. “Well, there’s more to come but first my famous from-a-jar spaghetti.”
Dinner follows with a little chaos. Tam is talking, asking questions and giving answers. She didn’t really need those question prompts at tea. She tells me about school and her Christmas concert coming up. She gets to play the recorder.
“Not the recorder.” Excitement fills my voice as I touch my chest.
“Yes, the recorder.” Zebb sticks a finger in his ear and shakes it while scrunching up his face.
“That good, huh?”
“I’m great at it,” Tam tells me.
He shakes his head, mouthingno.
“Is it time for dessert yet, Dad?” Tam excitedly asks as we finish our not-so-homemade spaghetti. I’m on my second glass of wine and I can’t remember the last time I felt so relaxed.
“I wanted to make you those mousse pots with Christmas tree cookies, but Dad said your birthday isn’t part of the holiday. It’s its own special day. Is it hard to have a birthday near Christmas?” Tam asks, all innocent.
“Yes,” I admit. “While some kids get presents twice a year, like a birthday in July and then gifts at Christmas, I felt like everything happened at once.” I leave off how I didn’t really celebrate the holiday. I already messed up telling her about my mom which I mentioned to Zebb when we had my birthday drink the other night. Zebb said roughly the same thing as Marnie. It didn’t hurt to tell the truth.
“The other reason we didn’t make mousse pots is I don’t know how,” Zebb explains.
“I really wanted to give you snowman ice cream, but Dad said no to that too.”
“What’s snowman ice cream?”
Tam stares at me. Eyes wide. Brows almost to her hairline. “You don’t know what snowman ice cream is?”
“No. I don’t know what snowman ice cream is,” I tease back.
“Dad, we have to have it.”
“Tam, I bought a cake,” Zebb says.
“But it’s chocolate,” Tam whines.
Zebb makes a horrified face. “Who doesn’t like chocolate cake?”
“Me!” Tam raises her hand.
I reach for his arm. “I’m not a fan of it either.” I feel terrible admitting such a thing, as he’s gone through so much trouble, but I don’t think I could force myself to eat a piece, especially after spaghetti.
“I’m a failure,” Zebb mocks.
Stroking his arm, I turn to Tam. “But I am curious about snowman ice cream.”
“Yes.” She makes a fist and tugs her arm toward her body before climbing off her chair and heading for the kitchen.
“Note to self: Learn to make chocolate mousse. Second note: No to chocolate cake.”
“I’m sorry. You’re so sweet. It’s the thought that counts, right?”