Yesterday. The fifth.

Three months have passed since Paco died. Since then, I have been somewhat on auto pilot. There have been moments of sobriety, moments of clarity that come as quickly as they disappear. But on balance, these last three months have felt like an eternity. And yet it feels as raw as last week. This week especially, the weight of his absence has felt extraordinary.

Today. The sixth.

My 45th birthday. Paco would have been the most excited. More than my wife. More than the other kids. More than all of them combined. He loved to make birthdays the best for whomever. Paco would have fought his siblings to wake me so that he could be the first to wish me happy birthday. He would have insisted on getting me a giant birthday balloon from Dollar Tree, and would not let the sun set without surprising me with a cake. “Dad, stay in your bedroom while we make a surprise cake for you.”

Lucia and the kids did well to make the day feel joyous as they could. We ordered breakfast burritos for delivery. I took the kids to the movies—a reshowing of The Bad Guys (2018)—and got some tacos for lunch. Before dinner, we went to do indoor mini golf. And yeah, they got balloons. Four of them. He is not forgotten.

My cake says “145” because of a running joke. My dad always added a hundred to his age when I was a kid. I started doing it to my kids. They all know the truth by now, but it’s the still the running gag in the family about “dad’s old.”

Author and his kids with his birthday cake