I missed the 6 AM flight to your birthday. By the time I got to the gate, they'd already closed the door.
I called your mom, my voice breaking. She said you were already blowing out candles. I had the candle in my pocket—a little plastic number 1, for your first decade.
I'd rented out my room to a travel nurse to make up for the ticket. She was nice enough, but she didn't know I was missing your party.
I flew out the next morning. Your mom let me in quiet. You were at the kitchen counter, a plate with a single slice of cake.
You'd saved it for me. You found the candle in my bag and stuck it in the frosting. We lit it together, just us, in the empty kitchen.
I almost cried. You said the party was fine, but this was better.
I realized then: missing that flight was the gift. I would have been just another adult in a crowded room. Instead, I got to be the one who showed up late, but showed up for you.
That's the second chance—not to get it right the first time, but to get it right when it counts.