Happy Birthday!!! Dad!

He remembered reaching his seventieth year after raising three children on his own. His wife, Eleanor, had died three decades earlier, and he never remarried. Fate, circumstance, and a string of missed chances had kept love at baythere were endless reasons to list, but what good would it do? He was too busy for such reflections.

The two boys were tempestuous and prone to fights. He shuffled them from one school to another until a remarkable physics teacher finally recognized a raw talent in them. Suddenly the bruises, quarrels and endless trouble vanished.

His daughter, Mabel, lived a quieter storm. She struggled to get along with her peers, and the school psychologist had started urging him to see a psychiatrist for her. Then a new literature teacher arrived, founding a writers circle for novices. Mabel threw herself into it, writing from dawn until dusk. Within weeks her short stories appeared in the school gazette, then in the village literary club, and finally in the countys quarterly.

In the end the boys earned scholarships to a prestigious universitys mathsphysics faculty, while Mabel secured a place at a renowned drama school. With their futures set, he found himself alone at lastand felt it keenly.

Silence swaddled the old farmhouse, broken only by the occasional howl of a windblown dog. He turned to fishing, tending the garden, and rearing a small herd of pigs on the generous plot of land that stretched beside the River Avon. The work paid well enough, though he later learned that a senior engineer at the nearby steelworks earned far less. Still, he could now afford modest cars for his children, pocketmoney for their needs, and decent clothes.

Time, however, grew thinner. The farm and the modest market stall that he ran consumed his days, and he liked it. Ten more years slipped by, and his seventyyear milestone loomed. He planned to mark the occasion in solitude.

His sons had long since married and were now absorbed in a topsecret defence project; weekends were offlimits. Mabel travelled from literary symposium to journalists conference, never lingering long enough to return home. He decided not to disturb them with an invitation.

Some other day, he thought. Theres nothing to celebrate here. Just me, alone Ill stroll around the farm, then sit with a glass of whisky and speak to Eleanor about how theyve grown.

The day arrived. He rose before sunrise to check on the pigsspecial feeding was due. The morning mist still clung to the fields when, stepping out onto the meadow still glittering with lingering stars, he spotted something odd in the centre of the grass.

It was a long, oddly wrapped bundle covered in a canvas tarp.

What on earth is that? he muttered, when suddenly a flood of floodlights snapped on, bathing the meadow in stark white. Figures emerged from the side of the househis sons with their wives and grandchildren, a handful of relatives, and Mabel, flanked by a tall, bespectacled gentleman with thick lenses.

Each held a balloon, squeaking through a straw, while others frantically pressed the noisy nozzles of airpressurised cans. They shouted, waved, and rushed to embrace him.

Happy birthday, Father! they chorused.

He had almost forgotten the mysterious object. The ruffiansnow familyblocked his retreat to the house where their wives were already gathering dishes on the table.

Hold on, Father, hold on, Mabel said, pressing a blindfold to his eyes. Let me guide you.

He obliged, a smile tugging at his lips. She wound a dense cloth around his head and spun him around once, twice, before leading him forward.

What surprise have you cooked up? he asked, halflaughing.

A little present, one son replied.

Hope it isnt pricey, the old man protested, his voice trembling. I need nothing.

Dont worry, Father, another said. Just a modest token of gratitude.

They led him to the centre of the meadow and gently lifted the tarp. A surge of music boomed from speakers, drums beating in time.

Beneath the glaring lights lay an immaculate Bentley RType, its polished chrome catching every flash. He staggered, breath snagged, almost collapsing, before a hand steadied him and ushered him onto a nearby chair.

Lord almighty, he whispered, his voice shaking. Lord almighty

Mum, calm down, Mabel spritzed his face with a spray bottle. Youve wanted this car all your life.

Its absurdly expensive, he breathed.

Its not more than a few pounds could buy, his youngest son said with a grin.

Come on, sit inside, well take photographs, Mabel urged.

He opened the door, only to find a cardboard box sitting on the passenger seat.

Whats this? he asked.

Open it, she said.

He lifted the lid to reveal two bright eyes gazing up from the bottom. A tiny, fluffy creature a silvertabby kittentumbled into his arms.

A proper cat! Just like the one we had with your dear Eleanor. Remember Bumble? You used to dote on it when you were a lad.

Of course we do, Father, the children chorused.

He never got into the Bentley. Instead he climbed the stairs to his upstairs bedroom, placed the kitten on the windowsill, and showed a photograph of Eleanor to the little ball of fur. Tears streamed down his cheek.

Do you see, Eleanor? Do you see? Ive managed it. Nothings been forgotten Do you see? he whispered to the picture, his voice breaking.

The children, however, would not let him linger alone. The table downstairs was already set, and toasts began to flow. Mabel leaned in, whispering that she was in her fourth month of pregnancy and that she and her fiancé were coming to stay.

She would remain at the farm, especially since the writing of her new novel could happen wherever she pleased. Her fiancé would travel to his parents in Cornwall, and in a few weeks they would wed in the village church.

Is that alright, Father? she asked.

It feels like a dream, he answered, planting a kiss on her forehead.

The day unfolded with chatter, modest fare, glasses of whisky, and recollections of years gone by. At twilight he walked to Eleanors grave, sat awhile, and spoke to her as the wind rustled the willow branches.

Life, he thought, was taking on a new hue. That splendid Bentley could now take him to the nearest market town, perhaps to buy a proper coat for the season. He imagined driving down the A46, the countryside whizzing past.

On the bed at the foot of the window the kitten, now named Tom, purred softly.

Tom, the old man murmured, then repeated, Tom.

Tom stretched, his tiny body lengthening as far as his paws could reach. The man lay back, stroking the warm, fluffy belly, and soon drifted to sleep.

Morning would come earlyfeeding the pigs, tending the garden, and a fishing line waiting by the river. Downstairs, Mabel and her fiancé slept soundly.

When the sons departed with their families, silence settled once more. Tom padded after his master, slipped into the pig trough, tangled in a net on the little boat, and tried to nibble the fish feed. The old man chuckled, patting the mischievous kitten.

Feels like youth has returned, he said, rubbing Toms back.

Toms tiny claws dug into his hand, and the man laughed aloud.

This tale is for no one in particular, he mused. It is simply a reminder to those who can still visit their parents: dont wait for tomorrow. Come while you can.

Adapted from Oleg Bondarenko.