A party for every occasion—that was Dad’s motto. My childhood birthday parties were celebrated like national holidays. Cake, presents, balloons—I never outgrew the joy of being singled out on my special day in June.
Even as an adult I always took the day off work, treating myself to concert tickets, dinner reservations or a massage. But now that Dad had joined the angels in heaven, that June day felt like any other. I’d lost the birthday spirit.
I got myself out of bed, put on a robe and wandered around the house. I’m not a kid anymore. Why make such a big deal about my birthday? I chided myself. Grow up.
I passed the door that led to my second-story balcony. Outside a strong June breeze was rattling the windows, as if the wind was trying to get my attention. Or was it something tapping against the window—maybe a tree branch? The sheer curtains obscured my view, so I opened the door and stepped outside.
Bobbing in the wind was a silver mylar balloon. Its long ribbon was tangled in the balcony railing. When I pulled it close I turned it around and saw its surprising message: “Happy Birthday!”
Could it be that heaven itself was making a fuss over me? With no time to lose, I got on the phone to plan my celebration.
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