the last birthday

The Last BirthdayThe house had never felt so quiet.

Margaret sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the way the morning light painted soft patterns on the wooden floor. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, rustling the branches as if calling to her. It was a sound she had always loved—one that made her feel safe, as if the world was still breathing alongside her.

But today, she felt none of that comfort.

Today, she turned 90.

For the past 65 years, William had been the first to wish her. She could still hear his voice in her mind, deep and gentle, whispering Happy Birthday, my love, as he placed a kiss on her forehead before the sun had even risen. He had never missed a single one.

Until now.

Her hands trembled as she reached for her robe. The fabric was soft, worn down by time, but it still carried the faintest scent of lavender—William’s favorite. She pulled it tightly around her shoulders, though it did little to chase away the chill that had settled into her bones.

The house had once been full of life. It had echoed with laughter, with the clatter of plates as they cooked breakfast together, with the sound of William humming an old tune while he read the newspaper. But now, it was just her.

Margaret made her way to the kitchen, the wooden floor creaking beneath her frail steps. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove, reaching for the small tin of tea leaves. It was the same blend William had always made for her—dark, rich, with just a touch of honey. He always knew how to get it just right.

She poured the hot water into her cup and carried it to the small wooden table by the window. The garden outside was blanketed in frost, the bird feeder swaying slightly in the breeze. William had built that feeder himself, years ago, when the children were still small.

She could almost see him out there, wearing that old sweater she had knitted for him, filling the feeder with seeds as he talked to the birds as if they were old friends.

Margaret smiled to herself.

Oh, how many memories this house held.

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to drift back—back to when they were young, when love was new and exciting.

She remembered the first time she met William, on a crisp autumn afternoon at the bookstore in town. She had been reaching for a book on the highest shelf, struggling to grasp it, when a warm hand gently plucked it down for her.

“You might need a taller bookshelf,” he had teased, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement.

She had laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Or maybe just a taller husband someday.”

He had grinned. “Well, I might be able to help with that.”

And just like that, their story had begun.

Margaret remembered their wedding day—the way he had held her hands so tightly, as if afraid to let go. The way he had looked at her when she walked down the aisle, his eyes filled with so much love that it stole her breath away.

Their life had been simple but beautiful. Lazy Sunday mornings spent tangled in the sheets, whispering secrets to each other. Rainy afternoons curled up by the fireplace, reading their favorite books aloud. The way he would pull her close in the kitchen, dancing with her for no reason at all.

Then came the children. Ellen and Daniel—two perfect little miracles who had filled their world with laughter and joy. She could still see William teaching Daniel how to ride a bike, running alongside him in the park, cheering when he finally found his balance. She could still hear the lullabies he had sung to Ellen when she was afraid of the dark, his voice a steady reassurance in the night.

Years passed, but their love never faded. Even as their hair turned gray, even as wrinkles crept onto their faces, William had always looked at her the same way he did on their wedding day. As if she was his entire world.

And then, one day, he was gone.

It had happened so quickly. One moment, he was holding her hand, telling her that everything would be okay. The next, she was alone in a hospital room, clutching onto his wedding ring, unable to breathe through the weight of her grief.

That was a year ago.

A year of emptiness. A year of reaching for him in the middle of the night, only to find cold sheets. A year of setting the table for two out of habit, only to push the extra plate away.

And now, here she was.

Another birthday. The first without him.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts.

Margaret turned to see Ellen standing there, holding a bouquet of lilies. Behind her, Daniel carried a small cake, and the grandchildren trailed in, their eyes bright with excitement.

“Happy birthday, Grandma!” they cheered.

She smiled, letting them wrap her in hugs, letting them fill the house with warmth. They tried their best to make her day special, and for a while, she let herself pretend.

They lit the candles, sang the familiar song. Margaret blew out the flames, closing her eyes.

She only had one wish.

As the evening faded, the house grew quiet again. Margaret sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers tracing the edges of an old, worn photograph on her nightstand.

It was their wedding picture.

She reached for it, holding it close to her chest.

“My love,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I miss you so much.”

Her heart felt heavy. Her limbs, so tired. The room felt colder, darker.

Margaret lay back against the pillows, curling onto her side—just as she always had when William was there to hold her.

Her breathing slowed.

Her fingers loosened around the photograph.

And then, in the silence, she heard it.

A voice, warm and familiar.

Happy Birthday, my love.

A single tear slipped down her cheek.

And then, Margaret was gone.

Gone to where William was waiting.

Gone to where love never faded.

Gone home.