I’m glad they listened to me, I thought, sitting at my desk on my birthday. My office coworkers always made a big deal about birthdays—singing, cake, gifts, the works. Usually, I loved it! But not this year. “Please don’t make a fuss,” I’d told them. “It’s just too painful.”
It was my first birthday without my husband, Jimmy. He’d passed away a few months earlier, on April 3. How could I celebrate without him? It hurt too much.
Not like Jimmy would’ve let me have a pity party. He never missed a chance to surprise me or do something thoughtful. One of our shared secrets was my love for chocolate-covered strawberries.
“I’ve never seen anyone get so happy simply from a dessert,” he’d tease.
But it was true. They were my absolute favorite. No other treat—cake, cupcake or donut—could compare. He loved hiding them for me to find.
One birthday I found a box in the back of the fridge, another time they were on my pillow. Sometimes he’d leave little notes. “Just because you are the best, I love you,” he often wrote. Even if we were out of town, Jimmy would scout out a chocolatier that sold dipped strawberries.
But that was all over. No Jimmy. No more surprises.
“Robin, this is for you,” my coworker said, handing me a UPS package with my name on it.
“That’s so nice, but you didn’t have to get me anything,” I told her.
“It’s not from us,” she said.
I checked the label. It was from a company who handled our corporate travel. I’d never received a package from them before. I opened it up.
A wrapped box was inside and a note. “We heard it was your birthday. Hope you like these!” it said. What in the world? I thought, tearing the paper from the box.
That’s when I saw them. The sweetest surprise that could have been delivered: A dozen chocolate-covered strawberries.
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