His First Birthday
HARDIN'S POV
I woke up to whispers.
Soft and quick and clearly trying not to wake me, but failing miserably.
I groaned and pulled the pillow over my head, trying to block out the sound, but then I heard the unmistakable pop of a party popper, followed by a chorus of giggles and shushing.
I cracked open one eye just in time to see confetti fluttering through the air like it was snowing inside my damn bedroom. And then—
"Happy birthday to you…"
The singing began, off-key and enthusiastic. I blinked against the morning light filtering through the curtains, sitting up slowly as the rest of the voices joined in.
"Happy birthday, dear Hardin…"
There they were. My mom. My dad. And Vera—my best friend all standing at the foot of my bed, holding a cake with way too many candles. All of them smiling like it was the best day in the world.
And maybe… maybe it was.
I laughed—really laughed—my voice cracking under the weight of it, like my chest couldn’t quite contain the sound. It came from somewhere deep, somewhere soft that I hadn’t visited in a long time.
My mom’s eyes welled with tears the moment she heard it.
“I told you he’d laugh,” Vera said with a grin, sticking her finger into the frosting and licking it before I could protest.
“You guys are ridiculous,” I muttered, rubbing my face and trying to shake off sleep. “You ambushed me.”
My dad chuckled, his hand resting on my mom’s shoulder. “You only turn twenty-eight once, son. And this is the first time we get to celebrate it with you.”
That hit harder than I expected.
I blinked at them, at the cake, at the ridiculous gold party hats on all their heads—yes, even Dad—and suddenly I wasn’t smiling anymore. Not because I wasn’t happy. But because I was.
So damn happy it hurt.
Because this wasn’t just a birthday. It was my birthday. With them. My family.
And for the first time in my life… I was glad I was born.
Growing up in the orphanage, birthdays were just another date on a calendar. No cake. No gifts. It was shared. It was hollow. It was survival.
Even after I got out and built a life for myself, my friends—Vera, Ronny, Jess, and Mark—had tried every year to make me celebrate. They dragged me to clubs, forced me into birthday dinners, and surprised me with gifts I never asked for. I went along with it. Smiled. Pretended.
But it never filled the hole inside me.
Until now.
“Come here,” I said, my voice low, rough with sleep and emotion.
Mom didn’t hesitate. She moved first, sitting on the edge of the bed as she wrapped her arms around me so tight it almost knocked the breath from my lungs. I held her just as tightly, burying my face into her shoulder, breathing her in.
She smelled like cinnamon and warmth and something faintly floral—like home.
Her hands trembled against my back.
“I never gave up on you,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Not one day. I always believed my baby was out there. I always believed you’d come home.”
Tears burned behind my eyes, hot and sharp.
And then they fell.
I didn’t care.
“I’m here now,” I whispered back. “And I’m not going anywhere. Nobody’s taking me away from you again. You hear me?”
She nodded, her face buried in my hair, and for the first time, I felt like her son—not just in name. In soul. In love.
“I’m not a baby anymore though,” I added, pulling back with a crooked smile.
She looked at me through tear-filled eyes and swatted my shoulder. “You’ll always be my baby.”
I laughed. “Fair enough.”
Dad reached for my shoulder, squeezing it gently. He didn’t say much—never really did—but his eyes said everything. Pride. Relief. Love.
It was overwhelming.
“Okay, okay,” Vera said, wiping her eyes and sniffing loudly. “This is way too emotional for me. Someone cry on the cake already so I have an excuse to eat it.”
I turned to her, squinting. “Did you seriously just put frosting on my face?”
She grinned like a devil. “Oops.”
“You’re dead,” I warned.
I threw the covers off, leapt out of bed, and chased her around the room like we were ten years old and not two grown adults. She shrieked and dodged, laughing so hard she nearly tripped over the edge of the rug.
“You’re gonna pay for that!”
“Worth it!”
Mom and Dad stood by the door, watching us, laughing, their arms around each other.
My heart was full—bursting, actually. Too full to keep all the feelings inside.
When I finally caught Vera, I grabbed a pillow and whacked her square on the back with it, sending her tumbling onto the bed with a laugh.
“Okay, okay, I surrender!” she wheezed. “Mercy, birthday boy!”
I collapsed next to her, chest heaving, the room spinning slightly with joy and sugar and sleep deprivation.
“I can’t believe this is real,” I whispered.
She turned to me, her expression softening. “It is. You’re home now, Hardin. You found your way back.”
I stared at the ceiling for a second, letting that sink in.
I found my way back.
Not just to my parents, but to myself. To the version of me I was always meant to be—loved, grounded, whole.
There was something healing about this moment. Something sacred.
We had breakfast together at the kitchen table—my mom made pancakes in the shape of hearts and stars, Dad brewed the strongest coffee I’ve ever tasted, and Vera wouldn’t stop trying to sneak extra whipped cream onto my plate.
I was surrounded by warmth and laughter and love.
Later, when the house quieted down and the others went to get ready for the party, I stayed back for a moment alone.
I walked down the hallway to the living room, where family pictures lined the mantle. I looked at the younger version of my parents in their wedding photo. At the framed baby shoes. At the empty frame my mother had always kept—waiting, hoping.
She’d left that frame untouched for twenty-eight years.
She’d saved space for me.
I reached for the picture Vera had taken of me and my parents weeks ago, the day we officially reunited. I placed it in the empty frame, hands shaking a little.
There. Finally.
Complete.
Tears slipped down my cheeks again, and I didn’t wipe them this time.
I let them fall.
Because today, I wasn’t the boy who was abandoned. I wasn’t the angry teenager with too many walls and too much pride.
Today, I was a son.
A friend.
A man with roots, with memories, with people who loved me.
Today, I was happy I was born.
And for the first time in twenty-eight years, I truly believed I was meant to be here.
Alive.
Loved.
Home.
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