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“So it’s your golden birthday this year.”
“It is.” I hadn’t realized it. I’ve been busy with other things.
“Do you have plans? It’s a quarter century you’re turning.”
“I’m not sure. I don’t have anything planned.” I’m not sure if I want to do anything.
“You should celebrate. It will be your first birthday back in Hartville, right?”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll go to dinner or something. We’ll see.”
Hudson will probably plan something. We haven’t been together like this in years, and he won’t let me go without some kind of celebration.
“Okay, so after high school, you went to Europe, right?”
“Yeah, I traveled through Spain and France, which is where I met a friend who told me about Alliance Aid, a humanitarian aid organization that works with refugees in Europe. It all snowballed from there. I was intrigued and volunteered to try it out. They provided a place to sleep and a monthly allowance, and I instantly fell in love with the work.” I take a bite of my waffles before continuing.
“I had no idea what I was walking into when I signed up, but seeing people who had to leave their homes and search for safety shook something inside of me, and I knew I was going to have a life-changing experience. We were the shining light in those people’s lives, and I made sure to always make them smile.”
“It’s admirable,” she says with a smile.
“Thanks.” I wish others could see it that way, especially my parents, but unfortunately, that’s not the case. I guess, in a way, I’m still a young boy seeking his parents’ approval and pride. I wish I could move past it.
“How did you end up in Africa?”
“I wanted to work in a different atmosphere after that first time volunteering, so I researched and found Without Borders, which aids small villages that have next to nothing. That’s where I realized the children in these countries could have so much more, but my ideas were rejected when I brought them up, so here I am, working toward that dream now.”
“It’s amazing. I’ve never met anyone who speaks about helping people the way you do,” she comments.
I smile and look at my plate, taking a bite of bacon. It makes me feel proud that she approves of this.
After we finish eating, Sage and I walk around town as we continue to talk. I tell her about the scar on my right eyebrow.
“So you climbed the tree and grabbed a cracked branch and fell?” Her eyes widen.
“Yeah,” I laugh. “I tried to hide it, being a naïve kid and all, but my parents saw the blood instantly. After they cleaned it up and checked to make sure I wasn’t injured more than that, they grounded me for a week.”
“Understandably so,” she giggles, shaking her head in disbelief.
“I call it my battle wound.” I waggle my eyebrows.
“More like a kitty scratch,” she laughs.
I reach for her, but she leaps away and laughs louder, sticking her tongue out at me. I try to reach for her again, but she squeals and runs backward.
“Oof.”
She stiffens and turns around. Her eyes round, and I tense.
“I’m so sorry.” She lifts her hands, palms out, and stares at my mom.
Wonderful.
I walk up to her, placing a hand on her upper back.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Tristan.” She looks between us. “Sage, how are you?”
