50 turns around the sun

If there were one image I'd want to keep forever it would be my boy walking out of the kitchen door.   
They did it well.  They bought the tickets, picked him up from Toulouse, hid him in the boot of the car, hid him under the bed and kept their secret.  
I came home to the moulin for an early night, but everyone I know was there.  There were hearts on the floor, helium balloons on the ceiling, pinatas hanging from the beams, a gin bar set up in the corner, Blanquette on ice and then there was my boy Gab walking towards me.
Stéphane taught us the Salsa and we danced and drank until two.  
I've been secretly  congratulating myself for getting to 50 without accidentally killing anyone or going to prison.  20 is another country, 30 I just wanted a baby, 40 I got divorced but all I'd wished for at 50 was to be able to walk in the hills every day, avoid osteoporosis and hot flushes and, at some point, when the waves are high, spend a week in a bothy on a cliff on the west coast of Ireland.
The pinata exploded with sachets of wild flower seeds, collagen face masks and little packs of Haribos, Myrtle left lipstick marks on the rim of every glass she touched, Stéphane started sweeping up the confetti at midnight but hung around until the end, Emma clucked and organised and brought the 6 year feud with lizzie to an end and my boy was there.