Don’t see my daughter much after wife’s death, but we talk every day. On my 80th, I wanted nothing but to see her, so I drove over. She looks nervous, asks, “Dad, what are you here for?” I say, “Just wanted to be with you for my birthday.” Told her I’d wait on the sofa, but she’s insistent I leave right away. Never treated me like that. So as I’m leaving, I hear noises, take a glance through the window, and there they are — two…
…young men in tool belts, whispering as they arranged decorations around her living room. There were balloons half-inflated, a banner rolled out on the floor, and what looked like a cake on the table covered with a towel. My daughter caught me looking, and instead of panic, her face filled with embarrassment—and then warmth. She rushed outside. “Dad,” she sighed, tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to push you away. I was trying to surprise you.”