It sat on the dining room table, its wrapping pretty and colourful.
He would spot it when he got home. He would probably guess what it was. His birthdays had always been fairly predictable. His collection of tiny porcelain figures almost filled the shelf in the glass cabinet. He was late again. He’d be tired when he got home. His work was exhausting. Not only that, it was dangerous. Roof tiling was a hazardous trade. She knew about the statistics. She couldn’t remember the number of times they had talked about it; the number of times they had discussed the possibility of him doing something safer. But he never wanted to do that, he liked his job.
It was late in the evening, when the old woman carefully picked the gift up.
She walked down the hall with it and opened the cupboard. She placed it safely in the middle of the empty shelf that was reserved for it and closed the door.
With a shake of her head, she thought, maybe next year.