Last year’s birthday for Grandma felt different from the start. She stood by the cake like she always did, giving us that gentle smile that somehow made everything feel okay. We had balloons, chocolate cake—her favorite—and a table covered in a bright, cheesy birthday tablecloth. Everyone was trying hard to keep the mood light, but something felt heavier than usual.
When it was time to blow out the candles, we sang like we always did—loud, off-key, and full of love. Grandma closed her eyes, taking it all in, and when we finished, she looked up and said, “Well, I guess this might be my last birthday with you all, so let’s make it count.”
The room went quiet. Someone tried to laugh it off, but she just smiled, peacefully, like she wasn’t afraid. She began thanking each of us for being there, her voice soft and calm. I wanted to tell her not to talk like that—to promise her there would be more birthdays—but something in her eyes said she knew. And I believed her.
Later, as the evening wound down, I stayed behind to help clean up. I found her in her favorite chair by the window, looking out at the garden.
“You okay, Grandma?” I asked.
She smiled and took my hand. “I’m just fine, sweetheart. But you’re worried, aren’t you?”
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