The night air still clings to me as I ease open the front door. My collar is damp with sweat, or maybe it’s shame—I can’t tell anymore. The drive back felt longer than usual, headlights cutting through the dark country roads, each mile closer to home tightening something inside my chest. Thirty-three today. Another year gone, another lie tucked neatly between the hours. Working late. Always working late.

I step into the hallway, shoes clicking softly against the polished wood. The house smells faintly of soap and starch—clean, orderly, the way Margaret likes it. My Margaret. My wife of thirteen years. I can still see her face on our wedding day, though the memory feels more like an old photograph, edges yellowed and curling. We were pushed into it, of course, our families insisting, our lives folded together like pressed linens. She was dutiful, kind, patient. She still is. And I… well.

The quiet strikes me first. No radio, no laughter from the children upstairs. The house is swallowed in darkness. I set down my hat, loosen my tie, try to steady the guilt that crawls up the back of my throat.

Then—

“Surprise!”

The lights blaze to life, flooding the kitchen doorway before me. I freeze.

There they are—Margaret, with her auburn hair tied back, a tired but tender smile on her face. The children—Mary, eight now, eyes bright as her mother’s, and the boys, Thomas and Henry, only a year apart, grinning in that gap-toothed, unpolished way of boys who haven’t yet learned the world’s weight. They stand crowded around the table, a cake in the center, candles burning low, little flames dancing in the draft.

“Happy birthday to you…” their voices rise, soft and off-key, filling the room.

I just stand there, still half in shadow, half in the light. The sweetness of frosting and vanilla wafts toward me, wrapping itself around the scent of my mistress’s perfume still lingering on my coat. My heart gives a sharp twist.

I smile—because that’s what’s expected of me. A doctor, a husband, a father. A good man. The kind who comes home to his family on his birthday, not from another woman’s bed.

Their song continues, voices pure and warm, and I feel my throat tighten as I realize—this moment, right here—this is the life I was meant to want.

And yet, all I can do is stand in the doorway, guilt heavy in my stomach, watching the candles burn.