When I’d been dating my future husband only a few months, he took me to his parents’ house for supper. They both worked night shifts, so supper was kind of the first meal of their day. No one talked much, but the food was delicious.

When the last potato had been scooped from the bowl, Wendell’s mom walked over to the cabinet and pulled out an angel food cake. With no frosting. She plopped it down in front of Wendell’s dad and said, “Happy 60th, Pop.”

And that was it. No brass band. No stack of presents. No other guests at the table. I’m pretty sure I hadn’t even been invited specifically for the occasion. This was shocking to me. At our house, birthdays were weeks in the making. Family members from both sides would attend. Gifts would be given. Songs would be sung. And the Person of Birth would be celebrated and congratulated for gracing the earth another year.

Fast forward about forty years. It is a rainy Thursday morning. The man of my dreams emerges from the bedroom squinting from the remains of a migraine headache. He gropes his way into the kitchen and passes me where I sit at my computer. I say, “Happy (not quite 60th), Babe. Do you want me to cook you some breakfast?”

“Thanks,” he says, “I’m not really hungry yet.” And, that is it. No songs. No balloons. No presents.

I am not particularly proud of this slacking on my part. No matter how many times he tells me he doesn’t care about such things, I always feel a tad guilty for not hiring a brass band. Or at least cooking breakfast.

But marriage has a way of melding two cultures into one. Ours doesn’t look exactly like either of the families from which we came. Nor like the ones that sprouted from us. But it is ours. And we love it, rainy birthday Thursdays and all.

Happy Birthday, Babe.