Born on My Father’s Birthday

A Quiet Reflection

January 27, 2026

I was born on my father’s birthday. The day was always special. It belonged to us alone. 

I don’t remember our birthdays before I was about five, but I do remember one when I was just about that age. We were at Grandma’s house (his mother), and she had baked a 2-layer birthday cake for us. I was sitting on Dad’s lap as our family sang Happy Birthday to us. My candles were on one side of the cake. Dad’s were on the other. I had several little candles. Dad had just one, bigger than all of mine. 

Most of our birthdays were spent at home. Mom always made us delicious 2-layer cakes, too. Our favorite was German chocolate with coconut icing, both of which she made from scratch. 

Like the birthday I remember at Grandma’s, we always shared a cake, but we each had our own candles. When someone would make a comment about me being Dad’s birthday present, he’d always say, “Some present!” Then he would laugh, his eyes twinkling. I knew he was teasing, of course. 

Later, when I grew up and married, we usually didn’t spend the day together because we lived 50 miles apart. Instead, I always made it a point to call and wish him a happy birthday—until one birthday that I couldn’t. 

It happened in the days before cell phones. We weren’t at home, and I didn’t have easy access to a telephone. I felt bad about it of course. 

My mother told me later how disappointed he was that I hadn’t called. I made sure it never happened again. Some dates stay written on the heart.