Three fucking weeks before he died.
On his actual birthday, he took the day off from work.
He got his hair cut.
Our hair stylist was happy.
He had been growing out for a while and it was just not working.
It was not a huge deal to me.
His hair, his head, not my deal.
Then I wanted to take him to dinner.
Of course, I did not want to drive like usual so I made him drive to his own birthday dinner even though he did not know where we were going.
I gave him directions as we were driving and he pretty much figured it out as we got close but I tried to be coy.
I pretended he did not know still and would tell him which way to turn as he was turning.
Even as we walked through Downtown Disney, I gave him a hard time for walking toward the right restaurant.
I loved our silliness together.
I regret not taking more pictures.
I have three pictures from that night.
Yeah, I did not know it would be his last birthday but geez.
I have pictures from everything.
Loads of pictures.
They clutter every room in my house.
And I have three from his birthday dinner.
The worst thing was I forgot to make him a cake.
I forgot to make my husband a cake on his birthday.
He loved cake.
How could I forget?
The worst part is I can never make it up to him.
I cannot give him a big cake for this birthday.
Or throw him a huge party for it.
Damn it! Why?!?!
Why right after his birthday?
Why only six months after we were married?
I wanted more birthdays.
I wanted to give him more "husband" birthday cards.