The package still sat in the centre of the dining table where he'd left it. That had been early Monday morning and it was now late Thursday afternoon, over eighty hours since he'd decided to test her mettle. In those intervening hours and minutes (approximately five thousand of them, not that she was counting), she had shaken it, squeezed it, smelled it, listened to it and looked at it from just about every angle. She had thought about trying to pry open one end and peer in at the contents but, on close examination, it appeared that her husband had already thought of that. He had used what appeared to be a whole roll of sticky tape to make sure that she didn't have that option.

Since Monday, she had run the whole gamut of emotions from anger to amusement and now back to frustration. She had tried to not be bothered and to just ignore the whole thing but that only lasted for five minutes or so before she had found herself admitting that she was indeed bothered, very bothered. She absent-mindedly lit herself another cigarette and leaned back in the dining chair, her eyes never leaving the object of her torment. As she stared at the mystery parcel, with it's brightly-coloured wrapping paper and it's large satin bow (complete with curled ribbons that looked a little worse for wear after all that shaking), she wondered whatever had possessed her husband in thinking this one up. Surely he knew by now that patience wasn't her greatest asset. Even if she had found it mildly amusing to begin with (which was probably stretching the truth a little), her strained smile had long since disappeared, to be replaced first with a frown and now with a resigned scowl.

She looked at her watch, finding herself lost in the lazy sweep of the second hand. She didn't note what the actual time was, only that it was just seven minutes later than it had been the last time she'd looked.

"Why does he do this to me?" she heard herself asking over and over again. "Doesn't he know me yet?"

She thought back to Monday morning and to the conversation that had taken place at that very table. She'd been struggling to feed the baby some breakfast cereal that seemed fated to be worn rather than eaten. Simultaneously she was struggling to pack lunch for the twins while at the same time buttering his toast and stirring his tea. It had been a very long night and she felt awful. Although she was successfully weaning the baby onto solids during the day (well, except for this particular morning), he seemed to have decided that as far as a middle of the night snack was concerned, breast was indeed best. It seemed like forever since she'd had a full night's sleep and the standard breakfast cacophony seemed to be amplified one hundred-fold this morning.

"Looking forward to your birthday then?" her husband had asked.

She’d assumed that it was his lips that had formed those words. She’d had to assume that because from where she sat, they were just detached sounds that drifted over the top of the newspaper that sat facing her. Every now and then a hand would momentarily appear, holding out his cup for the teapot-fairy to mysteriously refill. It was a ritual that had been re-enacted for more mornings than she cared to remember.

At one time, early in their marriage, he had regularly surprised her with breakfast in bed. He would triumphantly enter their bedroom (happy that he had survived another encounter with their temperamental kitchen appliances) and lovingly place the breakfast tray on her lap. On it would be freshly squeezed orange juice, soft-boiled eggs (three and a half minutes, just as she liked them), granary toast "soldiers" and maybe a freshly cut single rose from their garden. In trying to remember when he had last made breakfast for her, she realised that it must have been two pregnancies and three children ago. Nowadays, she considered herself lucky if he even made her a cup of tea.

He had distracted her at that point by rephrasing his question "your birthday, are you looking forward to it?"

"As much as anyone looks forward to any birthday once they’re over twenty-one, I suppose!" she’d snapped back.

She hadn’t meant to be so sharp in her reply and started to apologise. Sensing her failure to penetrate her husband’s intense focus on the sports section, she had let her words go unfinished, the sentence dying on her lips. Feeling the redness of anger rising in her cheeks and tears welling in her eyes, she had turned instead to the kitchen sink and took out her frustration on its contents. As she could have predicted, the ensuing cacophony of scraping, scrubbing and banging did nothing to stir her husband from his preoccupation.

Having battered the pots and pans into an easy submission (cooked-in food and greasy pans offered no real challenge when her temper was raised), she had dried her hands on the kitchen towel and turned back to the regular breakfast scene. As her husband sat, oblivious to all around him, the baby had emptied his beaker of milk onto the tray of his high chair and was giggling contentedly as he splashed and splattered it with his other hand. Almost out of sight (but unfortunately not out of earshot), the twins stood in the hallway trying to throttle each other with their scarves. Everyone has said how cute it was when she’d had them, that "one of each" was such a perfect combination and how they would always be there for each other. Now that they were almost nine years old, it seemed that they spent much of the time trying to kill (or at least seriously maim) each other. If it wasn’t scarves, it was toys or books or kitchen utensils. It seemed that almost any innocent household item could become a weapon of destruction in their hands.

Letting out a long and very audible sigh, she had sat down heavily in her chair. Still no sign of life had come from behind the newspaper. It was as if he could "tune out" everything around him and focus entirely on himself, his wants and needs. She resented him for this just as she resented the fact that she was unable to do it herself. Why was it that she had to shoulder all the responsibility and burden of the family while he just got on with whatever he wanted?

She had felt her temper starting to rise again. Given that she’d already given the dishes a "good seeing to", it would be the turn of the furniture next, polishing it to within an inch of its life. She had reluctantly found herself smiling inwardly as she thought that at least there was an upside to all of her frustration in the fact that her house practically shone from top to bottom from her efforts.

"I suppose I’ll give you this now" came the disembodied voice, as his hand slid out and reached towards hers. As it retracted back behind the safety of the newspaper, she had looked at the package that it had left behind.

"What is it?" she’d asked, as she reached out and picked it up, turning it over in her hands, marvelling at the way it was exquisitely wrapped. Normally, the plastic carrier bag emblazoned with the name of whatever store he’d purchased the gift from also stood service as gift-wrapping.

With a flourish, her husband had lowered his newspaper to the table and was now looking deeply into her eyes.

"It’s your birthday present. Silly! What do you think it is?"

"But it isn’t even my birthday yet … not for another three days".

"I know… I just thought that I’d give it to you now… that it would add to the surprise!"

She’d looked deeply back into his eyes, looking to see if this was one of his jokes or not, waiting for his eyes to start laughing. "Are you serious?"

"Quite serious. "

"No, I mean it. Are you being serious this time or are you just messing about as usual?" she badgered.

"Yes, I mean it too. I am serious sometimes you know, and…" adding with a dramatic flourish, "this is one of them!"

"You really mean that I can't open my present yet, not even for just a little peek?"

"No, absolutely not! We can't let you go and ruin your birthday surprise, can we? No, that would never do, now would it!"

Even though his eyes had been smiling, she’d known that he was being serious, that this was yet another one of his games. She didn’t understand why he liked teasing her this way or what possible pleasure he could derive from it, only that he did. He had seemed to gloat at the fact that her curiosity would quite probably get the better of her, that he’d be able to say "I told you so" when she had to reluctantly admit that she’d peeped.

Eighty hours! She found it hard to believe that she had lasted that long. He’d found it even harder to believe earlier that morning when he’d given her birthday card to her and sat back patiently, waiting for her confession. There had been silence for a long time until finally curiosity had got the better of him. As he had poured himself another cup of tea (he was obviously clearly shaken at this point), he’d nonchalantly asked how she had liked her present.

"My present? Oh, I haven’t got around to opening it yet"

"Oh, I see" he’d replied, trying and failing miserably to hide the look of surprise on his face.

"Are you going to open it now?" he added.

"No, I don’t think so" she replied. "I think it can wait a while, don’t you?"

She had felt the strength surge through her body as he’d reluctantly agreed with her. He was like a hurt little boy, all sad eyes and sloped shoulders and for a moment, she almost felt guilty for the pleasure that this gave her. It was only for a moment however and then it passed, to be replaced by a soaring of her soul. She sensed that this was a moment of change, both for her and for their relationship. She didn’t know why but she found herself making a vow that she would never open that gift.

It was a vow that she was to keep for the next forty years of her life. It was a vow that she kept even after her husbands’ death. Finally, it was a vow that she extended to her children when her own time came. According to her final wishes, the unopened birthday gift was placed alongside her body in the coffin and then lowered into the ground to rest with that of her husband. Not long before she died, as she had lain in her hospital bed, her daughter had asked her if she wasn’t curious to see what her husband had bought her all those years ago.