September, 1930.
Mary wandered away from the party for a moment and settled herself on the bench underneath the towering cedar. She watched as Tom bowled to George, who swung his brand new little cricket bat so hard that he spun round and collapsed in a fit of giggles.
She clasped her hands together and shut her eyes for a moment, breathing in.
"Darling?"
Mary opened her eyes and bestowed a small smile upon her husband of five years, who settled himself on the bench next to her as she turned her eyes back to the revelers dotting the lawn. Anthony followed her gaze and then spoke quietly.
"They'll be wanting to cut the cake soon. Sybbie's already managed to nick herself a bit of frosting…" He turned to look at her. He noticed his wife's unfocused eyes and how purposefully she was drawing each breath. "…but I'm sure it can wait for a bit."
Anthony fell silent as a brisk wind blew around them, knocking the ancient tree branches together and causing the faintest of creaks. Mary drew a shuddering breath.
"It's just that I realized he's been gone for longer than I knew him."
"Oh my darling." Anthony reached for Mary's hand, which seemed dainty and frail, wrapped in a white lace glove. He clasped her hand in his and didn't mind when his fingers became sore as his wife smashed his knuckles together with the strength of her grip.
The tree branches creaked again and Mary wondered how it should be that a tree might stand sentry for so long, witnessing death and pain and more death, and yet live—no, outlive—everyone who ever sat underneath it.
Mary worked her jaw for a moment and when she was satisfied that she would not cry, she stood up and allowed her husband to escort her back to to the party.
Later, he lifted up his son who was not his son so that the boy might blow out his nine blue candles. As George bellowed and did battle with the tiny flames, Anthony glanced at the wife who was sometimes not his wife.
And she was smiling.