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.”
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.
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