I didn’t even know it was his birthday until I overheard his grandmother sighing about “how hard the day might be.” She’d taken him in last spring. His parents left without much of a goodbye, and the boy—Miran—just stopped speaking for weeks.
I’d seen him watching my kids play from his porch. Always quiet, always clutching that threadbare stuffed bear. But this morning, he was sitting alone on a bench. No balloons. No guests. Just the soft glow of a “5” candle flickering on a tiny homemade cake.
My kids ran over to him with some sidewalk chalk and offered to play. He didn’t respond—just blinked up at them, eyes already watery. I followed behind with a little wrapped car toy I’d grabbed from the closet last minute. I didn’t expect much.
But the second he saw it—still wrapped in that blue paper with faded cartoon prints—his eyes lit up just a bit. He looked at me, then down at the toy, then back up. No smile, not yet. But he took it.
“Happy Birthday, buddy,” I said, crouching to his level. “Hope you like race cars.”
Uncategorized
Post navigation
Previous Post: