My grandson had recently celebrated his tenth birthday—a milestone year. I’d carefully chosen a gift I thought would be perfect for the occasion: a large boxed building set he’d been eyeing for months. On the day, I dressed in my finest blouse and made my way to their house. As I pressed the doorbell, quick footsteps echoed from inside.
“Come through to the kitchen, Mum,” said my daughter, Sarah, swinging the door open. Her voice was warm but edged with weariness, as if she’d spent the whole day preparing. “You do remember our birthday boy’s name, don’t you?”
I smiled, stepping inside. Of course I remembered—Oliver. But instead of answering, I simply nodded, clutching the brightly wrapped present. The kitchen was a swirl of colour: patterned plates, cartoon-themed napkins, and a grand cake crowned with ten candles, waiting for its moment. Oliver sat at the head of the table, beaming, while his friends—a lively pack of ten-year-olds—chattered loudly, tripping over each other’s words.
“Gran, is that you?” Oliver exclaimed, spotting me. He dashed over, wrapping me in a hug before eyeing the box in my hands. “Is that for me?”
“Who else, love?” I said, handing it over. “Go on, open it!”
With eager fingers, he tore into the wrapping, his face alight as the building set was revealed. The other children crowded around, peppering him with ideas of what to construct. Watching the excitement, warmth flooded my chest. Nothing compared to seeing a child’s joy on a day like this.
Sarah—always so perceptive—sidled up beside me and murmured, “Thanks, Mum. You always know just what he’ll love.”
I shrugged, as if it were nothing. But the truth was, I’d agonised over the choice. Ten wasn’t just another birthday—it was the cusp of something older, more serious. I wanted the gift to be more than just a toy, but a memory.
The party carried on: games, laughter, then the moment for blowing out candles. Oliver shut his eyes, wished hard, and in one breath, extinguished all ten flames. Cheers erupted as Sarah sliced the cake, passing out slices to eager hands. From my seat, I watched the happy chaos, struck by how swiftly time passed. It felt like yesterday Oliver was a toddling child—now here he was, tall and bright-eyed, with dreams of his own.
Once the cake was eaten and the children scattered to play, Sarah sat beside me. We talked of life’s changes, how fast kids grew. She mentioned Oliver’s new obsession with robotics, how he’d even joined a club to build models. I smiled, relieved my gift had landed just right.
“You know, Mum,” she said softly, “he’s been counting down to today. Having you here means more than any present.”
I returned her smile, though inside, I thought it was I who owed thanks. Being a grandmother was its own kind of magic—less burden, more love, with room for a little spoiling.
As evening fell and guests trickled out, Oliver raced to me, proudly clutching a finished spaceship from the building set. He babbled about crafting entire galaxies, his eyes shining. I listened, marvelling at him, knowing this birthday would stay with us all for years.
Walking home, my heart felt light. Ten years was only the beginning. Ahead lay so much more—adventures, discoveries—and I hoped to witness every step. But for now, I was simply glad to have given him a little spark of joy on his special day.
