Hector had always told me to be sensible.
When work kept him too busy to celebrate my birthday, he’d say, “Edna, I’m swamped. You should be sensible.”
When his social obligations prevented him from accompanying me to the hospital, he’d promise, “I’ll come by as soon as I can. Be sensible.”
Even when we were together, he said, “Edna, I chose to be with you because you’re sensible. Please stay that way.”
But I didn’t want to be sensible. I just wanted him to stay, even if only long enough to eat cake before leaving.
My nose stung, and mist blurred my eyes.
Perhaps noticing I was about to cry, Hector softened his tone. He slid a card across the table to me. “If you don’t like the gift, you can get something else. There’s no limit.”
I kept my head down, saying nothing.
He scooped up a piece of cake and took a bite. “Happy now?”
“Be good, Eds. I’ll make it up to you when I return.”
Hector rubbed the top of my head with an affectionate gesture. My tears turned into a small, reluctant smile.
For the first time, he’d compromised.
For the first time, he’d called me “Eds” instead of “Edna.”