The phone rang at exactly 8:14 on the morning of my thirty-sixth birthday.
I smiled when I saw the caller ID for exactly half a second.
Then I saw the name.
Patricia.
My mother-in-law.
No birthday greeting from her had ever ended well.
I answered anyway.
“Happy birthday to me,” I muttered before pressing the green button.
She didn’t bother with hello.
Her voice practically sparkled with excitement.
“I finally did it.”
I frowned.
“Did what?”
“I broke into your house.”
Silence.
Then she laughed.
Not a nervous laugh.
Not an embarrassed laugh.
The kind of laugh someone makes when they believe they’ve won.
“I smashed every picture frame you own.”
Another laugh.
“Your dining table?”
“Destroyed.”
“I poured bleach on your sofa.”
“I ripped every curtain off the windows.”
“I even took a hammer to that ridiculous kitchen island you loved so much.”
She paused dramatically.
“And don’t even ask about your bedroom.”
I leaned back in my chair.
Outside my apartment window, spring sunlight spilled across the parking lot.
Birds chirped.
My coffee was still hot.
My husband was humming while wrapping my birthday present in the next room.
Meanwhile, Patricia sounded like she’d just won the lottery.
“Are you crying yet?” she asked.