Friday, March 3, 3:30 PM. Amy.

Everyone’s napping this afternoon, including Brewer. We had his birthday party at lunchtime: forty-six years old. We made a big fuss. We raided the party store in town for all the trimmings: confetti, streamers, those blower elephant trunk noisemaker things. We had ice cream cake, his favorite. We sang to him. I filmed it. We don’t film so much these days as we used to, but this I filmed.

My parents thought I was crazy for marrying a man almost a decade older than me. I knew people would say it was some kind of “daddy issue” on my part. I knew it wasn’t. At least I thought it wasn’t. Now, I no longer pretend to understand my own motivations. He didn’t seem so much older than me. We talked on the same level. I respected his experience, but I wasn’t awed by it. Our hearts connected, and our minds were pretty well matched.

Later, when I was getting my doctorate, the differences began to show. He began to be jealous a little, I think—or, if not jealous, then threatened, intimidated—by my academic achievements.

But that only lasted a year or two. He got over it. He saw I wasn’t going anywhere, wasn’t leaving him behind. He was proud of me. We both realized we didn’t need to compete, he could share my accomplishments. Back then he loved to show me off.

The point is, I knew Brewer would get old sooner than I did. I didn’t care. I still don’t. But I didn’t foresee him growing old in his mid-forties.

He’s lost a lot of weight. His skin is not a healthy color, more gray than pink. He looked happy today; a little vacant, quite tired, but happy.