It’s my birthday. Well, almost — it’s in three days. I am going to be 56, and I still act like a child when it comes to the day of my birth. But usually my expectations far exceed reality.
In my fantasy, I awaken to a room filled with flowers. My dear husband has taken the day off to be with me and grant my every wish. He is standing by my bed with a tray laden with my favorite foods — eggs Benedict, strawberries and cream, and piping-hot coffee. There’s a single rose in a crystal bud vase. He hands me the morning Missourian with a banner headline that reads, “Sharon Harl is having a birthday.”