Last year’s birthday for Grandma felt different right from the start. She stood there in her usual spot, hands folded in front of the cakes, giving that soft little smile that always made us feel like everything was going to be okay. We had balloons, chocolate cake (her favorite), the whole table covered in a cheesy birthday tablecloth. Everyone was trying so hard to keep the mood up, but I could tell there was something heavy hanging in the air.
When it was time for the candles, we all sang like we always did—off-key, too loud, people laughing halfway through. Grandma just closed her eyes, soaking it in, and when the song ended, she looked up and said, “Well, I guess this will be my last birthday with you all, so let’s make it count.”
Everyone went quiet. Someone tried to laugh it off, but Grandma just smiled, kind of sad and peaceful all at once, and started thanking everyone for being there. I wanted to tell her not to talk like that, to promise she’d have a dozen more birthdays, but the look in her eyes stopped me. She just knew.
