On the morning of my seventy-eighth birthday, I woke up earlier than usual, not because of excitement but because of habit. Age has a way of reshaping your daily rhythms. Sleep comes lightly, and memories come heavily.
I lay in bed for a while, listening to the creaks of my old house settling, the faint hum of the heater pushing warm air into the hall, and the soft chirping of the neighbor’s birds outside my window. It was a peaceful morning, the kind I had grown to appreciate in my later years. Still, a part of me hoped faintly, quietly that today might feel different.
That maybe, just maybe, my children would show the same warmth I once poured into every moment of their lives. Birthdays used to mean something in our family. When my kids were little, they’d burst into my room with lopsided pancakes, messy cards, and off-key singing.
We’d celebrate with laughter, flour on our clothes, and frosting on our noses. I remembered those times fondly, even painfully. I didn’t expect pancakes anymore.
But I did expect my three children to come over for dinner. At my age, time with family was the greatest gift. By noon, I had already started preparing the dishes they loved: rosemary chicken, roasted vegetables, garlic bread, and the apple cake recipe my late wife perfected decades ago.
It was a lot of work for someone my age, but I wanted today to be special. Maybe it was foolish, but I wanted a moment where we felt like a family again. I set the table with the good plates, the ones with the faded blue rims, the ones we reserved for holidays and special occasions.
A soft ache filled my chest when I placed the fourth plate. My wife’s absence was a quiet shadow in every celebration. Ten years had passed since she left us, and in those ten years, something changed in our children.
Or maybe it had been changing all along, and I only saw it clearly once she was gone. The clock ticked. The day passed.
Finally, around five, the first one arrived. My oldest, Julian, walked in without knocking, his phone already in his hand, pressed to his ear as he conducted some urgent business. He nodded at me, at least acknowledging my existence, but didn’t bother hanging up.
Next came my daughter, Mara, with her enormous purse, her sunglasses still perched atop her head as though she hadn’t decided whether she was staying long. She kissed my cheek but scrolled through messages before even removing her coat. Last came Victor, my youngest.
He offered a quick, distracted greeting while typing something so intensely that he missed the step in the entryway and stumbled. He laughed about it to someone on his screen, not to me. I tried not to let the disappointment show.
Everyone sat around the table eventually, but not together physically, yes, emotionally no. Their eyes were glued to their screens as if the glowing rectangles were the source of oxygen. The only sounds were taps, swipes, and occasional bursts of laughter at something online.
“Dinner is ready,” I said gently. “Uh-huh,” Julian murmured, not looking up. “One sec,” said Mara.
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