Chapter Three:
The Birthday Ache
—
{Two Weeks Later}
Two weeks had passed since Samson signed the divorce papers, and the world around him felt dull and colorless. With schools on holiday, the streets were filled with laughter and excitement, but he felt utterly disconnected from it all.
Each day, he went to work, and after his shifts, he returned home to an empty apartment where silence echoed his feelings of abandonment.
The small apartment was marked by peeling paint and faded wallpaper. The cramped living space held a worn-out couch and rickety coffee table, surrounded by mismatched, weathered furniture. Scuffed hardwood and threadbare, stained carpet covered the floor.
The dated kitchenette featured an old, reluctant refrigerator and a stove with missing knobs, while the cluttered, stained sink and countertop suggested neglect. A faint odor of old food and mustiness lingered.
In the bedroom, a narrow bed with a sagging mattress and thin, faded blanket was illuminated by muted light filtering through a single window. The cramped bathroom had chipped tiles, an aging shower, and a cracked mirror, creating a sense of a forgotten space rather than a home.
The weight of the divorce hung over him like a dark cloud, stifling any desire to socialize or engage with the world.
Samson couldn't shake the bitterness of being tossed aside after investing so much in his relationship with Monica. They had shared dreams, laughter, and plans for the future—only for it all to dissolve in an instant. The betrayal cut deep, leaving him feeling as though a part of him had been torn away.
When his mother died, Monica had been the anchor that kept him grounded. The grief had been overwhelming, but now, with that relationship gone, he struggled to find meaning in his everyday routine. The emptiness of his apartment mirrored the void in his heart, and he often found himself lost in memories of what could have been, replaying moments of happiness that now felt like a cruel joke.
—
{The Day of His Birthday}
It was his 18th birthday, a milestone that should have been filled with excitement and celebration.
But ever since his mother died, he had grown to dread the day. It felt like a reminder of all that he had lost, a stark contrast to the joy it should have brought.
The thought of celebrating the day without anyone to share it with weighed heavily on him.
When he was with Monica, the day felt bearable; her presence made the ache in his heart feel less pronounced. Now, however, the reality of his solitude loomed large, and he knew he would spend this birthday alone.
Since his mother's passing, he had made it a tradition to visit her grave on his birthday—a ritual he had shared with Monica. It was a way to keep her memory alive, to feel connected to the love and warmth she had brought into his life. Now, he would visit alone, and the thought crushed him.
—
[Midday]
It was midday when Samson finally dragged himself out of bed.
He had taken the day off work, planning to prepare the special meal his mother used to cook for him and to bake the birthday cake that had become a cherished tradition.
Lying in bed, he had been engulfed in a fog of ennui, and it wasn't until boredom settled in that he decided to start his day. He trudged out of his room and into the kitchen of his small apartment.
Opening the fridge, he quickly realized that he had nothing to make for breakfast. "For heaven's sake," he muttered to himself, frustration bubbling up. "I guess I have to go to the shop."
After quickly washing up, he grabbed his wallet and slipped on his coat before heading out into the chilly air.
The closest shop was a brisk 30-minute walk from his apartment.
As he walked, his mind drifted to memories of Monica, flooding in like an unwelcome tide, each one a reminder of what he had lost. He found himself conflicted; he had loved Monica with all his heart. Was it only my love in the relationship? The question echoed in his mind, gnawing at his heart.
With each step, the weight of his thoughts pressed down on him, making the walk feel longer than usual. The bustling streets were filled with people enjoying their day—families laughing and children playing—and he felt like a ghost moving through a world that no longer felt like his own.
When he finally arrived at the shop, he moved through the aisles with purpose, quickly gathering the items he needed for breakfast and the special meal. The familiarity of the ingredients brought him a fleeting sense of comfort, a connection to happier times spent in the kitchen with his mother.
With a small shopping bag filled with groceries, he made his way back home, the journey feeling a little lighter but still overshadowed by the memories that lingered.
At this time of day, the streets were bustling. Many people and many cars were about - the city was alive with the typical sounds of city life.
There was chatter and laughter all around. The rumble of car engines and honking of horns filled the air.
It was a lively, vibrant scene - a snapshot of the rhythm and energy of the city at this particular hour.
About ten minutes into his walk, Samson heard the unmistakable roar of a sports car pulling up beside him. "Samson!" a familiar voice shouted from the car.
Samson instantly recognized the voice - it was his old acquaintance, Curtis. Ignoring him, Samson kept walking, determined to avoid any interaction.
"Samson!" Curtis shouted again, the car still trailing alongside. "I know you can hear me, don't be rude!"
Samson stopped and turned to face the car, irritation bubbling to the surface. "What do you want, Curtis?" he snapped, his tone laced with annoyance.
Curtis pulled the car over and got out, approaching Samson with a casual demeanor. "Whoa, no need to be so hostile, buddy," he said, hands raised in a gesture of mock surrender.
Samson maintained a cold stare, refusing to engage. Undeterred, Curtis stepped closer. "Hey, look man, I wanted to apologize to you about what happened."
Samson's brow furrowed in skepticism. "What do you have to apologize for?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Curtis let out an arrogant laugh. "You're right - I don't. It wasn't me who threw you to the curb then." He deliberately let the words hang in the air, clearly aiming to provoke a reaction.
Samson's jaw tightened, but he remained silent, glaring at Curtis.
"Anyway, I talked to them, and they want to make it up to you," Curtis continued, watching Samson closely for any sign of interest.
"Make it up to me?" Samson repeated, his confusion evident. "Why?"
"I'm not a hundred percent sure, but they want to give you some money to help you get back on your feet and apologize for what they've done," Curtis explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "So they're inviting you to the reception in a month."
Samson's brow furrowed. "Why invite me to the reception? They could just transfer the money."
"Hey, don't shoot the messenger," Curtis replied, raising his hands defensively. "They wanted to send you an invite, but didn't know where you moved to. Now that I've found you, I can give it to you."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. "I was on my way to hand an invitation to a friend, but I can always get another one." He chuckled, handing the invitation over to Samson.
Samson accepted the paper, glancing at it skeptically.
Seeing his expression, Curtis added, "You can always just come, collect the money, and leave. You don't need to stay long."
"I'll think about it," Samson replied curtly, folding the invitation and slipping it into his pocket.
"Great!" Curtis said, patting Samson's shoulder. He then glanced at his watch and cursed softly. "Shoot... I'm gonna be late." He quickly turned around, rushing back to his car. "I've got a dinner date with Monica..." He threw that last comment over his shoulder, clearly relishing the opportunity to rub salt in Samson's wounds. "See you at the reception!"
Samson watched as Curtis got into his car, the engine rumbling to life before the vehicle sped off into the distance. As the sound of the car faded, he stood there for a moment, grappling with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him.
With a heavy heart, he resumed his walk home, the invitation feeling like a weight in his pocket—a reminder of the life he had lost and the bitter reality of the present.
—
[Afternoon]
Later that day, Samson finished preparing the special meal and enjoyed it, alongside the birthday cake he had baked.
With a heavy heart but a sense of determination, he was ready to visit his mother. He took a 20-minute bus journey to the cemetery where she was buried.
After a short while, he found himself standing in front of her grave. In a secluded corner of the overgrown graveyard, her gravestone stood as a testament to remembrance and the passage of time.
The polished black granite surface had a muted luster, reflecting years of care. The elegantly shaped stone featured a heartfelt inscription, though the letters were beginning to fade.
Surrounded by patches of grass and vibrant wildflowers, the gravestone was slowly being enveloped by encroaching weeds and curling ivy. The area was tranquil, filled with the sounds of rustling leaves and distant birds, while sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the stone. Despite its signs of aging, the gravestone remained a poignant reminder of love and loss amidst the graveyard's wild beauty.
"Hello, Mum…" he said softly, pausing as if expecting her to answer. "How are you doing?" He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "It's my birthday today, Mum. I thought we could spend it together." He gazed at the gravestone, his heart heavy with longing.
"I brought a birthday cake for us to share," he continued, reminiscing about the joy his mother used to bring to his special day. "I promise it's not as bad as last time." A small chuckle escaped him as he recalled last year's disastrous attempt at baking, a far cry from her delicious creations.
He sat down, laying a blanket out in front of the grave before opening the box he had brought.
For the next ten minutes, he shared stories about the happy memories they had together—family gatherings, laughter, and the comfort of her presence.
As he finished eating, he looked down at the empty box in his hands. "I miss you, Mum. I wish you were here. You would know what to do," he whispered, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. In that moment, he opened up about everything that had happened—the divorce, the feelings of loneliness.
He poured out his heart, speaking as if she could hear him, feeling the weight of his grief lift just a little as he shared his burdens.
After some time, he fell silent, having expressed all he wanted to.
He sat in front of his mother's grave for a little while longer, letting the quiet of the cemetery envelop him, feeling a sense of peace amidst the sorrow.
Then, a voice broke through the stillness, spoken in a low tone to avoid startling him. "Mr. Riley?"
Samson turned his head, surprised to see a man in a suit standing a few feet away, holding a bouquet of flowers.
The man's tailored suit was crisp and impeccable. The fine fabric draped elegantly over his broad shoulders, the cut accentuating his lean, athletic frame.
His chiseled face had sharp features and piercing eyes that surveyed the opulent surroundings with a discerning gaze. Not a hair was out of place on his neatly combed head, betraying a meticulous attention to detail.
The man's tie was knotted precisely, the silk material gleaming. He carried himself with the poise and bearing of someone accustomed to the trappings of wealth and status.
Everything about his appearance suggested he was an integral part of the inner workings of this exclusive establishment - a trusted aide or personal assistant to someone of considerable means and influence. His very presence conveyed a sense of quiet authority and discretion befitting one who operated in the rarified circles of the elite.
The sudden appearance startled Samson, and he quickly wiped his eyes, trying to compose himself.
"Yes?" Samson replied cautiously, studying the stranger, who offered a polite smile.