exhausted to hear the children's stories. The note reminded him that being the parent who stayed was not the same as being present every minute. He cut back one weekend shift and asked Iris to help with pickups when he needed rest. It took effort to accept help. It was worth it to hear both children laughing at the dinner table again.
By the following September, the peach tree behind the house was taller and still almost as stubborn about producing fruit. Nia was nine, Caleb was seven, and the birthday plans were written on a bright blue sheet of paper hanging from the refrigerator. Guests were listed beside arrival times. There was a dinosaur cake, a sprinkler game, and one small chocolate cupcake set aside for breakfast because Caleb said it was now a tradition. Camille had confirmed her arrival and arrived the night before. She slept in a guest room nearby and knocked at the front door at eight-thirty sharp, carrying no gift bags and no camera. Caleb opened the door himself.
"You're early," he said, surprised.
"That's what I promised," she replied.
He hugged her. Not the careful hug of a child trying to decide whether he could trust his own happiness, but an ordinary hug that lasted until he remembered his breakfast was waiting. Andre watched from the hallway. He and Camille were still separated. Their marriage had ended, and not every conversation between them was easy. But they had learned to discuss schedules without putting the children in the middle, and their children no longer had to choose which adult's feelings mattered most.
At the kitchen island, Andre placed the cupcake in front of his son. The birthday crown was new, but Caleb wore the same blue dinosaur pajamas, now a little short at the ankles. Nia sat beside him in a pink shirt and pretended to be annoyed when he asked her to sing the birthday song twice. This time the fourth chair was occupied. There were also extra folding chairs stacked by the back door for friends who would come later, and not one of them represented someone Caleb was required to wait for.
Andre lit the candle. Caleb leaned close, his eyes shining. Then he looked up at his father.
"Do you want to know my wish this year?"
Andre smiled. "You know you're not supposed to tell anybody."
"It's not about getting someone to come back," Caleb said. "I already know who's here."
His father felt tears behind his eyes, but the boy was grinning now. "I wish you would stop fixing everybody else's lights on Saturdays so we can go fishing."
Nia burst out laughing. Camille covered her mouth, smiling through tears of her own. Andre promised they would go the following weekend, then took out his phone and blocked the day on his calendar while his children watched. There were some promises that deserved an immediate plan.
Caleb blew out the candle. The smoke curled upward in the bright kitchen, and Andre realized the old wish had finally come true, though not in the way any of them had imagined. His son had not been given a perfect family or a childhood without disappointment. He had been given something steadier: adults learning to tell the truth, to keep their word, and to make space for feelings they could not fix with a present.
When Andre picked up the empty paper plate, Caleb caught his wrist and pulled him closer. "Daddy?"
"Yeah, buddy?"
"I'm glad I was born."
Andre held him so tightly the birthday crown slipped sideways. "Me too," he whispered. "Every single day."