For three birthdays in a row, I sat alone in our favorite restaurant—my table candle flickering into a puddle of wax, the seat across from me cold and empty. Each time, he had an excuse: traffic, work emergencies, forgetfulness. But that evening, I’d had enough. When he finally showed up late with a shaky apology, I served him divorce papers and walked away—my heart heavier than my heels.
Weeks later, his mother knocked on my door, pale and fragile, carrying a folded piece of paper. It was an address. Without a word, she handed it to me and left.
At the cemetery, cold and quiet under looming oaks, I found the grave with my birthdate etched under a child’s name—Lily Harper. She died on the very same day I was born. And there he stood, trembling beside the marble.
He revealed the truth: Lily was his daughter from a previous marriage—killed in a car crash. Every birthday he’d missed was spent at her graveside, heart torn between grief and guilt, terrified I’d never understand.
As I knelt beside the stone, tears blurred into the damp earth. There and then, the walls between us cracked, letting in forgiveness, sorrow, and perhaps a second chance.
