by Bob Thurber
On the stairs I thought I heard footsteps and whispering.
The door was open.
My wife was in a chair in the center of the kitchen.
Her hands were behind her, like she was tied up, but when she saw me in the hall she brought one arm around and set it in her lap.
I waited for the other hand to come around.
Her expression was flat, neither a smile nor a frown.
What are you hiding, I said.
She worked her mouth like she was finishing a sour taste, then brought the other hand around. It was empty. She held it up, showing me her palm.
That must have been the signal. Because all hell broke loose after that hand went up. People flowed from every room. Friends, relatives, neighbors. Some held gifts. All the kids had balloons. No one yelled surprise. We had moved past that.
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