I prepared for my husband’s 50th birthday for months. I didn’t want to give him an object, but a feeling . Something that can’t be wrapped, only experienced. In the evenings, I browsed maps, marked routes, saved the most beautiful sunsets.

That’s how the idea of traveling to Hawaii was born. I hoped that the ocean would say something for us that was increasingly difficult to put into words after so many years together: that our life together was spacious, peaceful, and still full of possibilities.

When my 50th birthday approached , I expected much less. Maybe a coffee in bed. A hug. A card with a few kind words. I didn’t want a big fuss. Just to be remembered on the day when one inevitably starts to count.

He woke me up before dawn. He shook my shoulder gently and, smiling, whispered in my ear:
“Come down, there’s something waiting for you.”

I laughed half-asleep. I followed him barefoot, a little dazed, defenseless. I expected candles. Maybe a breakfast. Nothing more.

But I stopped in the living room .

The house was strangely quiet. It was a silence that wasn’t empty, but attentive. In the middle of the room stood a single wooden chair. An old one, carefully polished. I immediately felt it was familiar, but I didn’t know where. A blanket was folded on its back.

My chest was already tightening at that moment.