My name is Nancy King. I’m 36 years old, a single mom, and for three solid months, I had poured every spare ounce of my heart into making my dad’s 60th birthday unforgettable. The centerpiece of my efforts was a photo album, a meticulously crafted chronicle of a life well-lived. I had unearthed old family pictures from dusty attics, carefully penned handwritten notes beside each one, and chosen every moment with the singular goal of making him smile.
Our suburban Cleveland home buzzed with the warmth of family and friends, their laughter a joyful symphony filling the air. I held the gift, a heavy, leather-bound tome, tightly against my chest, my own heart thrumming with anticipation. I was waiting for that perfect moment, after the cake and the toasts, when Dad would open it in front of everyone who loved him.
