Story
My Five Children Forgot My 95th Birthday—What Happened After the Doorbell Rang Left Me in Tears
December 15, 2025
My name is Arnold, and after living for ninety-five long years, I can honestly say I’ve lived a good life.
I’ve known love. I’ve known hardship. I’ve watched the world change in ways I never could have imagined as a young man. I buried friends, raised children, worked until my hands ached, and loved one woman for over sixty years until the day she left this world.
When my wife passed away a few years ago, the house became quieter than I ever thought possible. Since then, it’s mostly been just me and my old dog, Max. He sleeps by my feet and follows me from room to room, as if worried I might disappear if he looks away too long.
I have five children—five beautiful souls I raised with my wife. They’re all grown now, with lives of their own. They visit every now and then. Holidays, sometimes. Phone calls when they remember. I don’t blame them. Life gets busy. I know that.
But my ninety-fifth birthday felt different.
It felt important.
Weeks before the day arrived, I sat at my small wooden desk and wrote five letters—one for each child. My handwriting isn’t what it used to be, but I took my time. I told them how much it would mean to me if they could come. I told them I wanted to see their faces, hug them, laugh, and share stories I’d been holding onto.
“I don’t need gifts,” I wrote. “I just want you here.”
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