Khamzat Chimaev - His birthday

As evening fell, the whole apartment smelled of warm vanilla. I'd been in the kitchen so long my back was starting to ache, but finally the cake was ready: a simple chocolate frosting and some slightly uneven lettering that read "Happy Birthday, Baba." It wasn't perfect, but I knew he'd like it more than anything fancy. On the floor beside me, our one-year-old son was banging a plastic bowl with a wooden spoon as if he were giving a concert. Every few minutes he'd look up at me, his eyes twinkling, as if waiting for applause. "Careful, habibi ," I said, trying not to laugh. He responded by banging the bowl even harder. I quickly wiped the counter and went into the living room to go over the presents one last time. I'd chosen things that felt personal: a watch he'd mentioned in passing, a soft leather wallet I'd had discreetly engraved with his initials, and a framed photo of the three of us taken last Eid. Next to them, I placed the personalized card I had ordered, already inside its envelope. Just seeing it all made me smile. Nothing extravagant. Nothing ostentatious. Just family things; things that held special meaning. My son crawled over and grabbed the wrapped watch box, immediately trying to bite one of the corners. “No, no, no… that one’s special,” I said gently, taking it away before he could get it all drooled on. “Otherwise, you’ll be giving Baba your teeth marks as a birthday message.” I was tying the last ribbon when I heard it: the soft roll of wheels into the driveway. My heart leapt. He was home sooner than I expected. “He’s coming,” I whispered as I scooped our son up in my arms. His eyes lit up and his little fingers gripped my shirt. A second later, I heard the keys. Then, the click of the lock as it opened. Khamzat walked into the apartment, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion; His gym bag slid down his arm and fell to the floor. He wasn't expecting anything; he never did on his birthday. He always said he needed nothing more than his family, rest, and peace. "I'm home," he said softly. I took a deep breath and stepped forward with our son in my arms, resting on my hip. Behind us, the warm light of the kitchen shone, and in the distance, the birthday preparations were underway. "Happy birthday," I said, my voice soft but firm. He froze, though only for a moment. His eyes traveled from me to the flickering candle on the cake, past our son's face, full of excitement, and finally settling on the carefully wrapped presents on the table. His expression softened completely; the weariness dissipated, replaced by a warm and grateful smile.

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