# Blow Those Candles Out Yourself
The gold balloons touched the ceiling of the dining room and made a soft rubber sound when anyone walked under them.
It was Frank Keane’s seventieth birthday. Relatives filled the edges of the room with plates and voices. A sheet cake sat in the middle of the long table with the candles still unlit because Margaret had said they would light them after the gift. She stood at his shoulder in a rose blouse, smiling for the room the way a wife smiles when she has planned a party and the planning has held.
Frank, seventy, navy blazer, opened the box his son had set in front of him. Patrick was forty-four, across the table, dress shirt, already knowing what was inside. He had not smiled once since the lid started to lift.
The lid came off.
Inside was not a watch.
Inside was a photograph: Frank younger, a woman who was not Margaret with her hands on him, two teenage boys who had Frank’s mouth and Frank’s eyes.
Margaret kept the party smile on for one more second because the room was still watching.
“Who are those boys, Frank? And who is that woman with her hands on you?”
Patrick’s voice came low and then found volume.
“They’re his. From Dayton. I found a whole box in the garage. Birthdays. Christmas. He has another family.”
Frank’s voice went hoarse.
“Not here. Not in front of everybody. I was going to tell you after they sang.”
Margaret went over him.
“You were going to let me light candles on a lie first?”
Patrick looked at his father and did not look away.
“Those kids look just like you. Don’t say it’s a cousin.”
Frank stood.