I used to laugh at people who said birthdays made them sad. Back then, birthdays meant cake, chocolate, and proof that life was good.
Now I understand. Birthdays make the air feel heavier—not because of the candles or the quiet, but because of the knowing that comes after you’ve lost people who once felt permanent.
Today is my 85th birthday.
Every year since my husband Peter died, I’ve followed the same ritual: fixing my hair, wearing the same coat, walking to Marigold’s Diner at noon—the place and time we met. It’s where he still feels closest.
When I arrived, a young man sat in Peter’s seat. He stood when he saw me and handed me an envelope with my name on it, written in Peter’s handwriting. The young man was his grandson. Peter had asked him to find me today.
Inside the letter, Peter wished me happy 85th birthday and explained why he waited. He told me a secret he’d never shared—that he had a son before we met, and later a grandson. He wrote of his love for me, his hope that I’d lived fully, and included a ring as my gift.
I slept better that night than I had in years.
The next day, I met his grandson again at the diner. We talked about Peter, about love, and about what it means to keep going. I realized I didn’t resent Peter for what he kept from me—I loved him more for it.
We agreed to meet again. Same place, same table.
Sometimes, love waits quietly in places you’ve already been.