For my 40th birthday, I expected nothing more than a quiet backyard BBQ — something low-key, maybe a few beers with

friends, some music, a cake if I was lucky. After the year I’d had, it was all I felt up to. Losing both of my parents just months

apart had hollowed me out. Grief was a constant, dull ache that never quite let up. But Mara, my wife, insisted on a small

gathering. “Just a few people,” she said. “It’ll do you good.” So I went along with it. When I stepped outside that afternoon, I

noticed something odd. Everyone — close friends, neighbors, even my brother — showed up holding gifts wrapped in black

paper. Every single one. At first, I thought it was some kind of dark joke,

maybe a nod to my “over the hill” milestone. But something about the mood didn’t feel like a prank. People smiled, but it was

tight-lipped. Their eyes gave something away — nerves, maybe. The pile of gifts grew, a stack of mysterious black boxes by the

patio table. As the sun dipped lower and the firepit crackled to life, I felt a strange tension building. Conversations were hushed,

and more than once I caught someone glancing toward Mara, as if waiting for her cue. Then, finally, she stood up, holding one

last box — also wrapped in black. She looked at me, her eyes shining with

something deeper than a birthday surprise. That’ when she said it, her voice trembling: