Happy Birthday!!! Dad!

Happy birthday, Dad!

John Whitaker was about to turn seventy, having raised three children on his own. His wife, Margaret, had died three decades earlier, and he never remarriedno luck, no chance, no suitable partner. He could list countless reasons, but would it matter? He had barely time to think about it.

His two sons, James and Thomas, were perpetual troublemakers, always arguing and fighting. John shuffled them from one school to another until a brilliant physics teacher finally spotted a genuine talent in them. Suddenly, every scuffle, every outburst, every problem vanished.

His daughter, Eleanor, struggled to connect with her peers. The school psychologist even suggested a psychiatrist. Then a new literature teacher arrived, started a junior writers club, and Eleanor began writing from dawn till dusk. Her stories first appeared in the school paper, then in local literary circles.

In short, the boys earned scholarships to a prestigious university to study physics and mathematics, while Eleanor enrolled in a renowned arts college.

Now the house was quiet. The only sound was the wind howling across the fields. John took up fishing, gardening, and raising a few pigs on the sprawling farmstead beside the river. He earned a decent living, enough to realize that a factory engineers wage was a fraction of what he made.

He could finally buy his children modest cars, chip in for their pocket money, and help them afford decent clothes. Yet, with all this work, his free time shrank even more. The farm and the small market stall consumed his days, but he liked it. Ten more years slipped by, and his seventieth birthday loomed. He planned to celebrate alone.

The sons, now heads of families, were deep in a topsecret defence project and couldnt get away for a weekend. Eleanor was constantly traveling to writers symposia. He didnt want to bother them with an invitation.

Just on my own, he thought. No need for a fuss. Ill walk the fields and, in the evening, sip a glass of whisky, remembering Margaret and telling her how weve grown.

That morning he rose early to check on the pigs, as always. While stepping out onto the starspeckled meadow in front of the house, he noticed a strange, elongated object wrapped in a canvas.

What on earth is that? he muttered, just as a burst of spotlights flooded the clearing.

His sons, their wives, grandchildren, and a handful of relatives emerged from the farmhouse doorway, followed by Eleanor, escorted by a tall man in thicklensed glasses. Everyone held balloons, blew through party horns, and some squealed into noisy aircompressor toys, shouting and waving their arms.

Happy birthday, Dad! they chorused.

He almost forgot the mysterious bundle, wondering if the neighbourhood kids had brought a prank. But his daughters and sons wives rushed inside, setting the table.

Hold on, Dad, hold on, Eleanor said, gently tying a cloth over his eyes.

Alright, go ahead, he replied.

She twisted the cloth around his head and guided him somewhere else.

Whats the surprise? he asked.

Its a gift, one son answered.

Hopefully cheap? John worried. I dont need anything.

Dont worry, Dad, another chuckled. Its just a little token of appreciation.

They led him to a spot, and Eleanor slipped the cloth from his eyes. Loud music blared from speakers, drums thumped, and the canvas was torn away by three eager hands.

Bathed in the bright beams, a gleaming Jaguar EType stood there. Johns breath caught; he nearly fainted and stumbled, but a grandson caught him and steadied him on a chair.

Lord Almighty, he whispered over and over.

Calm down, Dad, Eleanor splashed water on his face. Youve always wanted this car.

Its ridiculously expensive, he protested.

Its not more than a few pounds cant buy, his son replied.

Come on, sit in the drivers seat. We want photos.

John opened the door, only to find a cardboard box occupying the passenger space.

Whats this? he asked.

Open it, Eleanor urged.

Inside the box lay two bright eyes staring up at him. He pulled out a tiny, fluffy bundlea kitten, just like the one theyd had with Margaret years ago, the little orange tabby called Biscuit.

Remember Biscuit? When you were just a lad, you adored him, Eleanor cooed.

Yes, we all remember, the children chorused.

John never got into the car. He went upstairs to his bedroom, placed the kitten on the windowsill, and stared at a photograph of Margaret. Tears slid down his cheeks.

Do you see, Margaret? he whispered to the picture. I did it. Nothing was forgotten Do you see?

The family kept him from lingering alone. The table downstairs was laid out, and toasts began. Eleanor whispered that she was a month away from her fourth childs due date and that she, her fiancé, and their families were coming to stay. She would move in, her new novel could be written anywhere, and her fiancé would travel to New England to see his parents before their wedding in the village church.

Is that all right with you, Dad? she asked.

It feels like a dream, John replied, kissing her forehead.

The evening passed with chatter, snacks, drinks, and reminiscing. Everyone was genuinely happy. Later, John visited Margarets grave, sat for a long while, and talked to her as if she were still there.

Life began to feel fresh again, especially with that gorgeous car waiting for a proper outing to the nearby market town. A tiny Thai kitten, now named Tommy, slept on his bed.

Tommy, John murmured, petting the soft fur.

Tommy purred, stretched fully, and John, content, fell asleep with his hand on the kittens belly.

The next morning demanded early risingfeeding the pigs, tending the garden, and a day of fishing still on the agenda. Downstairs, Eleanor and her fiancé slept peacefully. After the boys had left with their families, the house fell silent. Tommy followed John around, tumbled into the pig trough, and got tangled in the fishing net. He tried to nibble at the bait, prompting John to laugh and chat with the mischievous cat.

Youre bringing my youth back, John chuckled, patting Tommys head.

Tommy mewed, clamped his tiny paws onto Johns hand, and nipped playfully.

Little rogue! John laughed.

The story isnt about grand heroics. Its a reminder to anyone who still has the chance to visit their parents: dont wait for tomorrow. Drive there today.

Lifes true wealth is measured not in the price of a car or the size of a bank account, but in the love that gathers around you when you least expect it.