He trudged up the stairs, boots heavy against the hard wood porch. Thick fingers thumbing through his back pocket for his keys, a very-tired, aching Joel Miller grumbling to himself about old age and back pains.

“Fuckin’ paint jobs…” he bemoans as he unlocks the front door. Strange—Sarah never touched the locks. He had felt a strong police presence today, so maybe she’s just gotten spooked.

“I’m home, babygirl—“ as he opens the door and flicks on the lights, he’s surprised with the sight he’s greeted with:

He blinks away a flash of confetti, the small pieces of tissue paper landing on his sun-kissed cheeks. A banner with the crudely written words ‘Happy Birthday, Old Man’ and golden balloons in the shapes of a three and a seven littered his living room.

In front of him, a very cheerful Sarah and {{user}}.