During lunch, another group of women are seated at a table near ours. They, too, arrive with gifts and flowers, clearly celebrating a birthday as well. The six women are elegant and stylish, and as they sit and begin talking, we realize they’re celebrating a fiftieth birthday.

Kris leans over toward the other table and gets the attention of one of the ladies. “Are you celebrating a birthday today?” she asks.

“Yes, Marsha’s fiftieth,” the woman answers, and Marsha with her sleek dark hair gives a wave.

“We’re celebrating Jackie’s fortieth, and if you don’t mind, we’re wondering what the difference is between forty and fifty.”

The women at the fiftieth-birthday table smile, and a silvery blonde leans toward us and drawls, “When you’re forty you decide it’s time to do what you want to do, even if it means upsetting others. At fifty you do what you want to do, and you don’t give a shit what other people think.”

The ladies at her table laugh and lift their champagne flutes for an impromptu toast. Nic, Kris, and Anne all turn back to me. “Wow,” Kris says, impressed. “Bring on fabulous fifty.”

After returning home with my flowers and gifts, I zip out again to buy a small cake and some party plates and napkins so I can have a little birthday celebration with Jessica and William tonight.

I can’t wait to see the kids. I’ve missed them so much, and they’ll be home in just half an hour now.

Bundled up, I’m on the street at the bus stop early. It rained in the night, but today is crisp and clear, the sky pale blue against the jutting dark green pine trees. Perched on a neighbor’s low stone wall, I leaf through an industry magazine but can’t focus. I keep checking my watch, monitoring the passing of minutes. Time seems to be passing so slowly right now. I’m anxious to grab my kids, hug them tight, make them mine again.

The yellow bus eventually arrives, and my kids race off, Jessica practically screaming with delight. William squeezes me until I can’t breathe. “Happy birthday, Mom!” he says, and then Jessica is joining with a chorus of high-pitched, “Happy Birthday to you, you live in a zoo, you smell like a monkey—” And I’m sure you know the rest.

We walk back to the house. I am carrying Jessica’s backpack for her as she holds my hand. William is telling me about the Sonics game their dad took them to over the weekend and how Ray Allen scored forty points for his third game in a row. I nod and smile, listening and not listening, so glad to be with them again, glad to see the sun, glad to be alive.