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A Columbus Day Surprise is a slice-of-life vignette and a reflection on emotional awareness. By anchoring his story in everyday moments, narrator transforms a routine holiday into an exploration of gratitude and rediscovery. Reminds readers that joy often arrives not as a grand event, but as a quiet surprise set lovingly in motion by those who know us best.

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A Columbus Day Surprise

By Harry Arabian

Columbus Day was an optional holiday at Technovate Inc., and after a long weekend of musical celebrations at the Newport Beach Civic Center, I needed one thing above all—a long, uninterrupted sleep.

It was nearly ten in the morning when the scent of fresh basil drifted into the bedroom, wrapping around me like a soft invitation. I followed it to the kitchen, where Marie stood at the stove, stirring a pot of tomato and basil sauce—the foundation of our annual Columbus Day lunch, a tradition she’d kept alive since our move from Boston’s North End.

She turned as I entered, her face bright but her tone brisk.
“Lunch will be ready at two,” she said. “And you’ve got plenty of time for your haircut at Mr. Nguyen’s. You’re starting to look like a sheep ready to be sheared.”

I smiled at the jab, took it as the compliment it wasn’t meant to be, and headed out in my oldest clothes toward the strip mall.

Mr. Nguyen wasn’t busy that morning. He waved me in cheerfully.
“Good morning, Mr. Herald! Regular short cut?”
I nodded, settling into the chair as he went to work.

As his scissors danced, my eyes wandered to the mirror and caught the reflection of the sandwich shop across the corridor. A steady stream of customers came and went, the door jingling with each arrival. Just as Mr. Nguyen finished and stepped back to admire his handiwork, I spotted a familiar face entering the sub shop—Dave, my co-worker.

I thanked Mr. Nguyen, paid, and headed over.
“Well, hello, buddy,” I called. “Thought you were taking the day off.”
Dave laughed. “I was going to, but my wife had to work, so I figured I’d catch up on some things.”
“Marie’s working too,” I said. “But lunch will be ready at two. Why don’t you join us? It’s our little Columbus Day tradition.”
He grinned. “Homemade meal? Count me in.”

I drove home quickly to let Marie know we’d have company. As soon as I stepped through the door, I noticed the dining table—set for four. Four dinner plates, four salad bowls, neatly folded napkins.

Everything gleamed—the counters spotless, the basil leaves arranged like decoration. Marie moved easily through the kitchen, calm, almost serene. For a moment, I wondered who she was trying to impress.

“Expecting guests?” I asked, half-grinning.

Before she could answer, a voice called out from the kitchen—familiar, cheerful. I turned, and there was Mona, Dave’s wife, tossing the garden salad as if she’d always belonged there.

“I thought you were working today,” I said, surprised.

Mona looked up with a mischievous smile. “Oh, I was—but only on plans for your birthday.”

That’s when it all clicked. The careful timing, the extra place settings, Marie’s unshakable calm—it wasn’t just a casual lunch. It was a quiet ambush of affection.

As the afternoon sunlight poured through the windows, filling the kitchen with golden warmth, I realized how lucky I was. Between the aroma of basil and the laughter of dear friends, I had everything worth celebrating: good food, good company, and the best wife a man could hope for on his special day.