I didn’t even know it was his birthday until I overheard his grandmother sighing about “how hard the day might be.” She’d taken him in last spring. His parents left without much of a goodbye, and the boy—Miran—just stopped speaking for weeks.
I’d seen him watching my kids play from his porch. Always quiet, always clutching that threadbare stuffed bear. But this morning, he was sitting alone on a bench. No balloons. No guests. Just the soft glow of a “5” candle flickering on a tiny homemade cake.
