The birthday candles melted while we waited for the police

Dear Delyara, My daughter turned twelve tonight. By seven o’clock, twelve children were sitting around our dining table wearing paper crowns while my husband was still not home. At first, I told everyone traffic was bad. At eight, his phone went straight to voicemail. At eight-thirty, the police called. His car had been found beside the motorway with the driver’s door open and his wallet inside. They would not use the word missing yet. They kept saying they were “establishing his whereabouts.” I sent the children home one by one while my daughter stood in the kitchen asking whether we should still cut the cake. The candles had burned so low that wax had run into the icing. She said Dad would be upset if we wasted it, so we lit new candles. I sang alone because she could not. She blew them out and did not make a wish. At eleven, two officers came to the house and asked questions while the birthday banner was still hanging behind them. His toothbrush is wet from this morning. His slippers are beneath the radiator. There are twelve unopened gifts in my daughter’s room. I keep thinking there should be a clear border between a birthday and the worst night of your life. Tonight, there wasn't one.