Just after midnight I get out of bed, double-check the calendar, and put the bag on the dining room table.
At 5:45am, I search for light and hope I’m not late.
My slippers flip-flop on the path in the pitch black. I ring the doorbell, a vision in robe and FrankenHair.
Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear neighbour, happy birthday to you! I croak, handing her the present.
She laughs before I finish. “It’s from my husband, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I say brightly, thinking how thoughtful and clever he has been to make these arrangements before his extended business trip.
“Thank you very much,” she says. “But it’s not my birthday. My birthday isn’t for another two days. After 25 years of marriage he still gets it wrong.”
I shuffle home debating whether it is the thought that counts. Goodness knows, I can see both sides.