Harry's 3rd Birthday.

Time flies.

Morning light spilled through the curtains of David's room as he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He was about to rise when his gaze drifted to the nightstand—and froze on the photo frame resting there.

It was the last picture of him, Harry, and Maylie. Taken on their wedding anniversary, moments before everything changed. His fingers trembled as he picked it up. For a long, long time he just sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at that frozen smile of hers, feeling every memory crash over him like a storm.

Half an hour passed before he finally tore himself away, heading numbly to the bathroom. When Miss Dora knocked on his door, there was no response at first. She knocked again, and David stepped out, still in a towel. She tried to lighten the air with a teasing remark, but he brushed her off with one of his dry jokes. Behind the banter, his eyes were hollow.

Breakfast was quiet. Miss Dora spoke of errands and wedding arrangements, her mind elsewhere. David barely touched his food, wondering why no one had mentioned Harry's birthday. Perhaps, he thought, she was planning a surprise. He didn't ask.

But Miss Dora had forgotten. The wedding preparations had swallowed her whole.

Lara had gone home the night before for urgent family matters, so there was no one else to remember. David left for the office with a heavy heart, pushing the thought aside.

Evening came. He stepped into the house expecting laughter, decorations, the chaos of a small party. Instead, the mansion was silent.

In the hallway stood a large box tied with a ribbon. Miss Dora approached, smiling as if nothing was wrong, asking casually why he'd come home early. Then she gestured toward the box and asked if it was a gift for Kay.

The words hit him like ice water. In that instant, he knew—she hadn't remembered.

His jaw clenched. His eyes darkened. He didn't answer, only demanded to know where Harry was. Miss Dora, caught off guard, stammered that Harry was in his room. David turned without another word, leaving her standing there with the sting of his silence.

Harry was on the floor, playing with his toys. The moment he saw his father, he dropped them and ran, little arms outstretched. David scooped him up, holding him tight against his chest, burying his grief in that small, warm embrace.

There would be no crowd, no party, no one else. But there would be a birthday. David ordered a cake on his phone and sat on the floor with his son, trying to push away the ache in his chest. He opened a small box and revealed a silver neck chain.

"This is from your mother," he whispered, voice breaking.

Harry's innocent eyes widened at the mention of her. He asked questions a child should never have to ask—why she wasn't here, what heaven was. David's heart splintered, but before his tears could fall, those tiny hands brushed them away.

"Sorry, Dad," Harry murmured softly. "I won't ask again. Please… don't cry."

David held him close, swallowing down the sobs, and reached for another box—a set of miniature cars. Harry's face lit up like the sun, eyes sparkling with pure joy.

The doorbell rang. Miss Dora answered it, finding a delivery boy holding the cake David had ordered. Confusion clouded her face as she carried it upstairs and knocked on David's door.

When he opened it, her heart sank. He took the cake from her hands, silent and stern, and turned back into the room without explanation. The door remained ajar, and she stood there in the hallway, feeling something unfamiliar—a pang of guilt that tightened in her chest.

Inside, David placed the cake on the table, lifted Harry onto his lap, and whispered, almost to himself, "We'll celebrate alone. I don't care about anyone else."

Harry clapped his hands with delight as the knife cut through the frosting. "Happy birthday, Harry," David said quietly, kissing the boy's head. The soft melody of the birthday song filled the room—quiet, intimate, and heartbreaking.

Miss Dora heard it from the hallway. Her breath caught. A wave of realization and shame swept over her. How could she have forgotten?

She stepped into the room, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She reached out to pat Harry's head, her voice trembling as she whispered apologies—words too late, too heavy to erase what had been done.

David's shoulders stiffened. His anger had burned into something colder, quieter. "Whatever," he muttered at first, unable to meet her eyes. But when she kept speaking, guilt spilling from her like a broken dam, something inside him softened.

Her tears fell freely now. He sighed, his own heart breaking at the sight of the woman who had raised him standing there, trembling and ashamed. He touched her shoulder gently. She looked up, startled, eyes red. He nodded, wordless, and pulled her into a brief hug—a silent truce.

That night, in a house filled with unspoken regrets and memories that refused to fade, Harry's third birthday passed—not with crowds or parties, but with a small boy's laughter, a father's quiet devotion, and a grandmother's tears of remorse.

The cake was sweet, but the air was heavy. And somewhere, beyond the reach of rain or sorrow, Maylie's memory lingered—watching, loving, forgiving.