of a photo frame drew Elizabeth’s attention to the windowsill. The image of Kate as a child stared back at her. To think of such happier times with her daughter was bittersweet, painful now to think how long had passed since they had spoken. Of how she missed her. Overcome for a moment, she placed the frame back on the sill and wiped the corner of her eye, lost as to how to help her daughter forgive the most terrible mistake she had ever made as a mother.
“I suppose you’re hungry, aren’t you?” Elizabeth said at last, following the welcome distraction of the fluffy bundle still fussing at her feet. Cookie’s tail rose poker straight in appreciation as she stroked her hand along his back. Elizabeth set a plate of fish on the floor, then located a half bottle of champagne that she had placed in the fridge the night before. Although she could never bring herself to open the bottle Tom had left on the doorstep many years ago, each year she bought a replacement to toast their memory. It was difficult with her arthritis, but she managed to send the cork flying across the room with a loud pop. Cookie didn’t even flinch. “You must be going deaf,” she told him, laughing to herself as she poured herself a flute. It was too early for it, really, and the alcohol didn’t agree with her blood pressure tablets, but it was just one day out of the year. This was how their special day began, she thought, remembering the wish from 1978: I wish we could sip champagne for breakfast while we sit and gaze at the ocean. Each year she tried to realize Tom’s wishes in whatever way she could, but every year she was reminded that some were more easily fulfilled than others.
Bubbles fizzed from the flute as a pan of water came to a steady boil on the stove. Soon enough, she had prepared a plate of poached eggs on toast. Stooping to retrieve a small wicker basket from the cupboard alongside the fireplace, she set it down on the table, along with her breakfast. As she took her seat, an old Elvis Presley LP began to play—a scratchy version of a song she loved, one she only ever listened to on this day.
“Ah yes,” she said aloud, fingering through the little blue slips of paper in the basket until she came across one she liked. “This was a good idea, wasn’t it?”
On the little note it read: 1993: I wish that you would read my diary, so that you would know every day of this year I was thinking about you. That diary was still in the cupboard along with the unopened champagne, delivered in 1978 along with that year’s wish. True to his word, every daily entry was about how he had been thinking of her. Forty-eight more wishes remained in that basket, each one a testament to something they had missed, to a part of their lives they hadn’t really shared. After reading his diary she had wanted to find him and tell him what a mistake it was that they weren’t together. But the reality of their lives had stopped her, for it wouldn’t have been fair. Knowing that he was married, and that technically so was she, meant that for them to be together was impossible. Still, the thought of everything they had missed out on, coupled with the strength of his commitment to honor his promise each year, was difficult to digest; his wishes and gifts were enough to make her wonder what kind of life they might have been able to share had they stayed together.
Tom had been her first love, her only love, and a man she could never forget. In his presence she had felt so much like herself that when he left, it was almost as if he had taken a small part of her with him. That was why she looked forward to this day so much; his annual gifts awakened those parts of herself, and for a short time each year she felt as if she were still that same girl who fell in love all those many years ago.
Pushing her empty plate aside, she stood up, her head light with bubbles and excitement. Cookie returned to his favored spot, a small basket in one of the windows where he could, should the mood take him, imagine a hunt of the local gulls without