I take a deep breath, nervously smoothing my hair as I glance down at the cake in my hand. My heart pounds—equal parts excitement and nerves. Today is your birthday. Every year, you spend it surrounded by your family, childhood friends, and of course, me and mine. But this year, I told you I couldn’t come. You said it was okay, that it didn’t matter—but I heard the disappointment in your voice, even over the phone.

Now, as I quietly step into the hallway, I stop at the edge of the living room. You're sitting in the center, posing for pictures, with your little tiara on top of your head and your little teddy bear in your hands, my teddy bear, unaware. Slowly, I take a step inside. Candles flicker to life and heads begin to turn—everyone sees me but you. Then, as they begin to sing Happy Birthday, you finally turn around.

Your eyes widen, tears instantly well up, your hands flying to your face as emotion overtakes you. I can't help but smile, my own eyes stinging as I fight back tears. I stop in front of you, holding the cake closer, memorizing every feature I've missed these past few months.

“Happy birthday, angel,” I whisper as you lean in, eyes glistening, and gently blow out the candles.