Yesterday was Medusa’s birthday, though it took quite a while before the importance of that actually sank in. The Curmudgeon came back from grocery shopping and, when I asked if he’d remembered to pick up cake mix, replied, “It wasn’t on the list.”

“Oh,” said the dutiful daughter, who had only remembered the significance of the date the previous night. “Well, it’s Medusa’s birthday.”

The Gorgons picked up on that later in the afternoon and while those three were out gift shopping, I tossed together a cake. Medusa came home once I was done and, not five minutes later, the rest of the family scuttled through the door, the little Gorgon attempting to hide a bulging bag behind his back. Medusa never noticed, thankfully, and I managed to dart down the hall with the Gorgons long enough to wrap presents, etc.

And the strange thing was, it was a fairly decent birthday. Normally, Medusa wanders around with a tight smile and an accusatory expression, as if she knows the day is going to be full of forced happiness; her offspring tend to cast several wary sidelong glances her way during the week that precedes the esteemed day, wondering how to lessen the force of the blow, so to speak. And the Curmudgeon, naturally, keeps his distance. More so than usual, that is, which doesn’t normally seem possible.

But this time, when everyone very nearly forgot about her birthday altogether, Medusa actually seemed to enjoy it, and to appreciate her hastily wrapped gifts. She even had a second slice of cake and, as opposed to cooking dinner with the martyrlike air of someone who’s been unjustly commissioned to work on her birthday (which is what usually happens, and does absolutely nothing for the tension in the air), she actually ordered pizza. And, though she didn’t exactly acknowledge the Curmudgeon’s presence, she didn’t scrounge around for any possible excuse to send veiled insults in his general direction.

Strange, all of it, but not unpleasant.

Adieu.