Humble pie

My 30th birthday was Wednesday and my husband didn't get me anything.
If all went well between a doctor's appointment and work, we planned on dinner out for the night.
We ended up at the Mesquite Chophouse; he told me before we left that a present he ordered was late and that money for shopping was forthcoming.
Dinner was nice, but I kept expecting a surprise. Maybe my parents would show up at dinner or my friends from Atlanta. Nada. Not even a card.
When we got home I made a clandestine trip to check the mail and frantically dialed my mom, "He didn't even get me a card."
I was so, so hurt. Because it is so, so not like him.
As we settled down for bed, I finally mustered up the courage to ask him about it, and he said he was sorry.
Infuriated, hurt and unable to sleep, I picked up my pillow and moved camp to the couch.
A day later I was still reeling. He worked late and we patched things up that night, though my feelings were still pretty sore.
Two days later we headed to a friend's pool party as planned.
My husband was a little more keyed up than I was, but it was a beautiful day and I hoped to relax by the pool.
Instead, I spent the afternoon with my best friends and family during the surprise birthday party my husband engineered.
What a surprise.
All that planning! He sent out e-mails with directions; bought necessities; enlisted help from friends and friends' wives; organized food prep and made sure my family and friends were there on time.
When about 30 of my family and friends yelled out "Surprise," I walked straight to him (and I swear, someone already had handed him a beer). I needed a hug: I was a little scared and a lot thankful.