The moment I saw the tears streaming down my adopted son’s face, my heart shattered. I had never seen him cry like that before. It was supposed to be a joyful day, a celebration of the little boy I had grown to love as my own. But as he sat in front of his birthday cake, his small hands clenched into fists, he choked out words that sent a wave of guilt crashing over me.
“My birthday was yesterday.”
The room fell silent. My stomach twisted as I realized what I had done. I had forgotten.
I had marked the wrong date on my calendar, convinced that today was the special day. I had planned everything—his favorite cake, a few close friends, a pile of carefully chosen gifts. But none of it mattered. Not now. Not after I had unknowingly ignored the real day he had been waiting for.
“I’m so sorry, buddy,” I whispered, kneeling beside him. “I made a mistake.”
Tears slipped down his cheeks as he shook his head. “It’s not just that.” His voice trembled. “I used to spend my birthdays alone. In the foster home. Nobody remembered. I thought this year would be different.”
My chest tightened. He wasn’t just crying over a simple mistake—I had unknowingly reopened a wound he had carried for years.
I reached for his hand, squeezing gently. “It is different. You’re not alone anymore.”
He sniffled, but his gaze remained downcast. “It didn’t feel different.”
The guilt was overwhelming. How could I have messed this up?
Then, an idea struck me. “Come with me,” I said, taking his hand. I led him outside to the backyard, where the decorations still hung, the balloons swaying in the breeze.
“Close your eyes,” I said. He hesitated but obeyed.
I pulled out my phone, set the date back one day, and pressed record. Then I cupped his small face in my hands. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “Today is your day. Yesterday, today, tomorrow—it doesn’t matter. We celebrate you. And we always will.”
His lips trembled as I pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Blow out your candles again,” I urged. “Make a new wish.”
His small chest rose and fell as he took a deep breath. Then, with a slow, thoughtful nod, he turned back to the cake, inhaled deeply, and blew out the candles. The other kids clapped, and I wrapped him in a warm hug as everyone cheered his name.
That night, as I tucked him into bed, he whispered, “This was my best birthday ever.”
Tears pricked my eyes, but I smiled. “Next year, we’ll get the date right.”
He gave a sleepy nod. “Okay.”
