“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” Angela said quickly, blushing. “This morning I saw the date circled on your calendar. The kids insisted… I just thought… everyone deserves a birthday.”
“My mom says you’re a good person,” said the youngest boy, four-year-old Noah. “Good people should have nice birthdays.”
Michael opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked at the cake again.
Everything there was simple. Inexpensive. A little imperfect.
And more meaningful than anything money had ever bought him.
Something inside him broke.
Not from pain.
From relief.
Tears came before he could stop them.
“Mr. Harrington, are you okay?” Angela asked softly. “If this upset you, we’ll clean everything up right now.”
“It’s not that,” he said, voice shaking. “It’s just that… no one else remembered.”
He didn’t need to finish. Angela understood.
Six-year-old Caleb walked up and grabbed Michael’s hand naturally.
“Don’t cry,” he said seriously. “There’s cake.”
Michael laughed through tears.