My eighteenth birthday didn’t feel like a birthday at all.
That morning, I poured tea into chipped mugs, pushed carts of cupcakes down narrow hallways, and sang “Happy Birthday” to residents who couldn’t remember their own names. Not that I minded — if anyone deserved celebration, it was them.
Janet hugged me in the break room and handed me a gas-station card with five dollars inside.
“Spend it all in one place, kid,” she joked.
I laughed. “Luxury, here I come.”
And truly, I expected nothing more. No party, no gifts — just another shift.
Until after lunch.
The nursing home director, Mr. Cullen — tall, serious, always composed — approached me with an expression I’d never seen on him.
“Stacey,” he said, staring like he’d just witnessed something impossible. “Could you come to my office? Someone’s here for you. And… well, I’m honestly shocked. This feels like a miracle.”
“Someone’s here for me?”
He nodded and stepped aside.
Confused, I followed him down the corridor. Inside his office sat a man in a crisp navy suit, probably in his sixties. Silver-streaked hair, kind eyes. The moment I walked in, he stood.
“Stacey, isn’t it?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” I replied, unsure whether to sit or stay standing.
