I SPENT IT ALONE UNTIL THE DOORBELL RANG My name is Arnold, and after living for 93 years, I can confidently say that I’ve had a blessed and joyful life. My wife passed away a few years ago, and since then, it’s just been me and the five beautiful souls we brought into this world our five children. I remember the excitement I felt as I anticipated my 93rd birthday celebration. I wrote five letters to my children, inviting them to come. I didn’t want to hear their voices through a phone line; I wanted to hug them and share all the stories I’d been saving! I was over the moon with excitement. Each car sound made my heart jump, but with each passing hour, the hope in my eyes began to fade. I sstarted to worry as I stared at the five empty chairs around the dining table. I called them several times, but they didn’t answer. It dawned on me that I might end up spending this special day alone, just like so many other days. But then, the doorbell finally rang.

Arnold’s 93rd birthday wish was heartfelt: to hear his children’s laughter fill his house one last time. The table was set, the turkey roasted, and the candles lit as he waited for them. Hours dragged on in painful silence until a knock came at the door. But it wasn’t who he’d been waiting for.

The cottage at the end of Maple Street had seen better days, much like its sole occupant. Arnold sat in his worn armchair, the leather cracked from years of use, while his tabby cat Joe purred softly in his lap. At 92, his fingers weren’t as steady as they used to be, but they still found their way through Joe’s orange fur, seeking comfort in the familiar silence.

The afternoon light filtered through dusty windows, casting long shadows across photographs that held fragments of a happier time.
“You know what today is, Joe?” Arnold’s voice quavered as he reached for a dusty photo album, his hands trembling not just from age. “Little Tommy’s birthday. He’d be… let me see… 42 now.”

He flipped through pages of memories, each one a knife to his heart. “Look at him here, missing those front teeth. Mariam made him that superhero cake he wanted so badly. I still remember how his eyes lit up!” His voice caught.

“He hugged her so tight that day, got frosting all over her lovely dress. She didn’t mind one bit. She never minded when it came to making our kids happy.”

Five dusty photographs lined the mantle, his children’s smiling faces frozen in time. Bobby, with his gap-toothed grin and scraped knees from countless adventures. Little Jenny stood clutching her favorite doll, the one she’d named “Bella.”

Michael proudly holding his first trophy, his father’s eyes shining with pride behind the camera. Sarah in her graduation gown, tears of joy mixing with the spring rain. And Tommy on his wedding day, looking so much like Arnold in his own wedding photo that it made his chest ache.
“The house remembers them all, Joe,” Arnold whispered, running his weathered hand along the wall where pencil marks still tracked his children’s heights.

His fingers lingered on each line, each carrying a poignant memory. “That one there? That’s from Bobby’s indoor baseball practice. Mariam was so mad,” he chuckled wetly, wiping his eyes.

“But she couldn’t stay angry when he gave her those puppy dog eyes. ‘Mama,’ he’d say, ‘I was practicing to be like Daddy.’ And she’d just melt.”