As more guests arrived, the trend continued—black packaging everywhere. Bags, bows, boxes. Even Rob, who showed up late, looked around and said, “What’s with all the funeral wrapping?”
I glanced at Mara, who was arranging food on a tray. She met my look with a calm smile.
The gifts formed a neat stack by the firepit. Laughter floated around, but something about it felt… restrained. Even my usually bubbly niece Lily sat quietly, sipping lemonade.
Leaning toward my cousin Sarah, I asked, “Okay, seriously—what’s with all the black?” She shrugged. “Just open your gifts. You’ll get it.”
As the sky turned golden, Mara tapped her glass. “It’s time,” she said with a smile. “Let’s open some presents.”
Mark handed me the first one—a plain black mug. No words, no design. Then came a solid black T-shirt. A thick book, wrapped in matte black paper. “Trust me,” Tyler said with a knowing grin.
Then things started to change.
A small rattle. A folded blanket. Tiny black baby booties.
I froze.
Mara stepped forward with one last box. She sat beside me, placed it gently in my lap, and waited.
Inside was a black onesie, folded with care. Beneath it, an envelope with my name written in her handwriting.
Hands shaking, I opened the note.
“Four months in,” it read. “You’re going to be a dad. I wanted to wait for the right moment. Happy birthday, love.”
The words hit me like a wave. After ten years of trying—of hoping, of heartbreak, of letting go and holding on again—we were here.
I turned to Mara. She nodded, tears shining in her eyes.
We had tried everything. And after so much disappointment, we’d stopped talking about it. But the dream had never really left.
Now, somehow, against all odds, it was real.
I cried—really cried—for the first time in years. And Mara held me, strong and steady.
Then came the sound of clapping. Laughter followed. Mark picked up the mug. “Check the bottom,” he said. I turned it over. “World’s Greatest Dad.”
Tyler pointed to the shirt tag. “Dad Mode: Loading.”
They’d all known. Every gift had been a clue I hadn’t seen. The joke, the theme—it all made sense now.
Guests passed the gifts around again. Bottles, bibs, diapers, all hidden in clever packaging. It was more than a party. It was a celebration of something we had waited so long for.
Later that night, long after the fire had dimmed and the guests had gone, Mara and I sat together by the glowing embers. We didn’t need to talk. Her hand in mine said it all.
I still missed my parents. I always will. But that night, the grief didn’t feel like a weight—it felt like a part of the story that brought us here.
A beginning.
A spark in the darkness.
A miracle, wrapped in black.