When I planned a quiet backyard BBQ for my 40th, I expected laughter, hugs, and maybe a few dad jokes. Instead, every guest arrived carrying black-wrapped gifts. By sunset, I realized none of it was a coincidence.
Not physically—there were people around me—but deep inside, there was a silence I couldn’t shake. My parents were gone. Mom passed in January, Dad followed in June, just five months apart.
Some days, I still reach for my phone to call them, thinking I’d hear their voices, forgetting for one wild second that I wouldn’t. The silence after that realization is louder than anything else.
I didn’t want a party. It felt wrong. What was there to celebrate?
But Mara insisted. She always knew when to push.
“You need this,” she said. “Nothing big. Just a few people. The ones who love you. A little food, a firepit, some laughs. You deserve that.”
I gave in, more out of love for her than belief in the idea. So we planned a small backyard BBQ—family, close friends, food on the grill.
I trimmed the grass, cleaned the chairs, strung some lights. I kept telling myself that this would help. That maybe something good could still live in the middle of all this grief.
“Hey, birthday man!” Mark shouted from the porch, already laughing, holding up a black gift bag with a shiny black bow like it was a prize. “Hope you like it dark.”
I laughed, even though I didn’t really get it. “You always bring drama, huh?”
“Only for you,” he said, stepping inside.
Ten minutes later, Jess and Tyler showed up with matching black boxes. Tyler winked as he handed his over.
“Going through a goth phase I didn’t know about?” I asked.
Jess smiled, just a little too wide. “You’ll get it soon.”
I brushed it off at first. A weird coincidence, maybe a Pinterest idea they all copied. But when Rob came strolling in with a sleek black package and muttered, “What’s with the funeral gift bags?” even he looked a little thrown when he realized he wasn’t the only one.
I glanced over at Mara, who was arranging plates on the table. She caught my eye and just smiled like everything was normal.
The gifts started piling up near the firepit. Black bags, black ribbons, black matte paper. It didn’t take long for the little corner by the chairs to look like a dark mountain of mystery.
People talked, laughed, moved around with plates in hand, but the mood felt different. There were smiles, yes, but they were restrained and brief.
Laughter bubbled up and died just as quickly. Even the kids were quiet. Lily, my niece, who usually spent birthdays bouncing around like a ping-pong ball, sat cross-legged at the edge of the deck, slowly sipping lemonade.
I leaned toward Sarah, my cousin, who was scooping salad onto her plate. “Hey, quick question. Is this some new thing I missed? Everyone’s showing up with black wrapping.”
She looked up, barely missing a beat. “Is it? Huh. Strange.”
“That’s all you’re giving me?”
She grinned, just slightly. “Just open your presents. You’ll see.”
I didn’t press. But a cold little knot had formed in my stomach, the kind that whispered “Something’s coming.” I tried to shake it off, but I kept catching people glancing at me when they thought I wasn’t looking. Conversations hushed whenever I walked by.
As the sun slipped low behind the trees, Mara stepped forward and tapped her glass with the back of a fork. The metal clink echoed louder than it should have. Everyone turned. Even Lily stopped swinging her legs.
“Alright,” she said, her voice warm but calm. “It’s time.”
I straightened in my seat. “Time for what?”
“Gifts,” she said, stepping back slightly. “Start opening them.”
Mark handed me the first one. “Here. Start with this.”
I reached into the bag and pulled out a solid black coffee mug. No writing. No logo. Just plain. I turned it in my hands.
“Nice mug,” I said, a little confused.
“Keep going,” he said, nodding toward the pile.
Jess handed me hers next. Inside was a folded black T-shirt. Again, no design. Just fabric.
“Should I be concerned?” I asked, laughing awkwardly.
Tyler gave me a book. It was heavy and wrapped in that same matte black paper. “Might come in handy,” he said with a grin.
More gifts followed. A small black box held a baby rattle. Another had a folded blanket, soft and tiny.
I blinked and looked up. “Okay, seriously. What’s going on?” No one answered.
That’s when Mara stepped forward, holding the final box.
She sat down beside me, her hand resting gently on mine. She didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Her eyes shimmered, and I felt the weight of the moment settle into my chest. The box on my lap was small, light, like it barely contained anything at all.
I pulled the lid off slowly, the paper crinkling as I peeled it back.
Inside were the smallest black baby shoes I had ever seen. Soft. Perfect. Sitting beside them was a folded black onesie, pressed neatly like it had been handled a hundred times. My hands began to tremble. My throat tightened so quickly that I couldn’t speak.
Nestled beneath the onesie was an envelope. Just my name on the front.
I opened it. Mara’s handwriting filled the card, but I could barely read past the first line.
“You’re going to be a dad. Four months in. I wanted to wait for the right moment. Happy birthday, love.”
I stared at the words, the ink blurring through tears. I turned to her, mouth open, but no words came out. Just air, just a soft gasp. She nodded again, smiling through her own tears.
We had tried for so long. Ten years of trying. And losing.
There were doctor visits, charts, hormone shots, late-night drives to the ER. There were three miscarriages, each one stealing a little more light. And after the last one, we stopped talking about it. It hurt too much. We told ourselves it was over. We let the dream go.
I let out a sob I didn’t even know I was holding. I bent forward, covering my face. My shoulders shook. I didn’t care who saw. I cried harder than I had in years.
Mara pulled me in, and I held on like I was drowning.
Behind us, the group was silent. Then, softly, someone clapped. Then more. I looked up, eyes red and blurry, and saw their smiles—real ones this time.
