When the morning of my birthday arrived, I woke up earlier than usual. I shaved carefully, even nicked my chin a little. I put on my best sweater—the one my wife used to say made me look “distinguished.” I set the table with five extra chairs. I baked a small cake myself, clumsy hands and all.
Max watched me with his head tilted, tail thumping against the floor.
I was over the moon with excitement.
Every time I heard a car slow down outside, my heart jumped. I peeked through the window more times than I care to admit. Noon came. Then one o’clock. Then three.
The cake sat untouched.
The chairs stayed empty.
As the hours passed, hope slowly drained from my chest. I told myself they might be late. Maybe traffic. Maybe something came up. I checked my phone again and again, but there were no messages. No calls.
By evening, the sun dipped low, painting the walls orange and gold. I sat alone at the table, staring at the five empty chairs. I felt foolish for getting my hopes up at my age.
“It’s okay,” I whispered to Max, though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to comfort. “They’re busy. They didn’t mean to forget.”
But deep down, I knew the truth.
I had spent my ninety-fifth birthday alone.
I cut myself a small slice of cake and took two bites before pushing the plate away. My appetite was gone. My chest felt heavy in a way I couldn’t explain. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes, thinking of my wife, wishing she were still here to tell me everything would be alright.
And then—
The doorbell rang.
I froze.
For a moment, I thought I imagined it. Max shot up, barking excitedly, tail wagging like a puppy’s. The bell rang again, louder this time.
With trembling hands, I stood and walked to the door.
When I opened it, my breath caught.
There stood all five of my children.
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