Chapter 2 - The WishJulian Mercer had spent twenty years training himself never to lose control in front of other people.
For several seconds, he stared at the ceiling.
Then he remembered.
Forty years old.
Today.
Julian almost laughed at himself for caring.
Men like him were not supposed to care about birthdays.
He was the founder and CEO of Mercer Global, a technology and logistics empire valued at more than twelve billion dollars. His photograph had appeared on magazine covers. Senators returned his calls. Executives rearranged vacations when he requested meetings.
There were six cars in his underground garage and a private jet waiting at Teterboro.
Yet that morning, Julian reached for his phone with the quiet anticipation of a child.
No missed calls.
No personal messages.
Only automated notifications.
Asian markets open mixed.
Board meeting moved to 10:30.
Quarterly acquisition documents ready for review.
Julian stared at the screen.
His younger brother, Oliver, had not called.
His longtime friend Grant had not texted.
His board members had apparently forgotten.
Even Elaine, the executive assistant who had managed his schedule for eleven years, had sent nothing except a reminder about a conference call.
Julian placed the phone facedown.
“Ridiculous,” he muttered.
Downstairs, Rosa Alvarez was already working.
Rosa had been his housekeeper for three years. She arrived every weekday before seven and occasionally brought her four-year-old daughter, Mia, when childcare fell through.
Julian tolerated the arrangement because Mia was unusually quiet.
Or at least he pretended that was why.
The truth was that Mia had somehow become the only person in his home who was not afraid of him.
She called him Mr. Julian instead of Mr. Mercer.
She left crayons on his desk.
Once, she had informed him that his expensive abstract painting looked “like angry spaghetti.”
He had nearly smiled.
Nearly.
At seven thirty, Julian entered the dining room.
Rosa placed coffee beside him.
“Good morning, Mr. Mercer.”
“Morning.”
Nothing else.
He glanced at her.
Had she forgotten too?
Apparently.
A strange pressure formed behind his ribs.
“Anything unusual today?” he asked.
Rosa hesitated.
“No, sir.”
Julian nodded.
Of course.
By nine, he was in the office.
His employees greeted him exactly as they always did.
“Morning, Julian.”
“Acquisition numbers are ready.”
“Singapore is waiting.”
Nobody said happy birthday.
At noon, his brother called.
Julian answered immediately.
“Oliver.”
“Hey. Quick question. Can you sign off on the Harbor Point financing before two?”
That was it.
No mention of the date.
Julian stared through the glass wall of his office at hundreds of employees moving between conference rooms.
“I’ll handle it.”
“Great. Thanks.”
The call ended.
At two fifteen, Grant texted.
Drinks Thursday? Need your advice on something.
Julian typed:
Today’s Thursday.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
No response.
By six that evening, Julian felt foolish for expecting anything.
He canceled dinner reservations he had secretly made for eight people at Le Jardin.
He told Elaine he was going home.
“Big night?” she asked distractedly while checking an email.
Julian buttoned his coat.
“No.”
He arrived at the penthouse shortly after seven.
The lights were low.
Silence filled every room.
Rosa had apparently gone home.
Perfect.
Julian poured himself a whiskey and stood beside the windows overlooking Manhattan.
Forty years.
He thought of his mother.
She had never forgotten.
When Julian was eight, she had worked two jobs and still baked him a crooked chocolate cake at midnight because she had been stuck at the hospital cleaning offices.
When he was sixteen, she had saved for three months to buy him a used computer.
When he turned twenty-three, she had mailed him twenty-three handwritten notes, one for every year of his life.
She had died before his thirty-second birthday.
After that, birthdays became quieter.
Julian lifted his glass.
“To you, Mom.”
His voice broke slightly.
He hated himself for it.
Then something moved behind him.
A small scraping sound.
Julian turned.
Nothing.
He looked toward the hallway.
“Mia?”
No answer.
Then two tiny hands appeared around the doorway.
A little pink shoe followed.
Mia stepped into the room wearing a pale pink dress that was slightly too big for her.
Her curls were held back by a crooked plastic barrette.
She was hiding something behind her back.
Julian frowned.
“Mia? Why are you still here?”
She approached slowly.
Her lower lip trembled.
“I had to wait.”
“For what?”
“For you.”
She stopped in front of him.
Julian noticed dried tears on her cheeks.
“Mia, where’s your mother?”
“Kitchen.”
“Is something wrong?”
Mia shook her head.
Then she whispered, “Everybody forgot.”
Julian froze.
The glass in his hand suddenly felt heavy.
She knew.
Mia brought her hands forward.
She was holding a small paper plate.
On it sat a lopsided cupcake covered in uneven blue frosting.
A single candle stood in the middle.
Beside it was a folded sheet of construction paper decorated with purple hearts.
“I made it,” she said.
Julian could not speak.
Mia looked down.
“Mommy said we don’t have money for a big present.”
His throat tightened.
“So I gave you my birthday wish.”
Julian stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
She unfolded the paper.
Inside was a drawing.
Three stick figures stood beneath a yellow sun.
One was small.
One wore a blue dress.
The third was very tall and wore a black suit.
Above them, in uneven letters, Mia had written:
MR JULIAN SHOULD NOT BE LONELY ANYMORE.
Julian’s vision blurred.
Mia looked up.
“I wished for you to have a family.”
Something inside Julian broke.
He sank slowly into the nearest chair.
The billionaire who had negotiated billion-dollar acquisitions without blinking covered his mouth with one hand.
Mia placed the cupcake in front of him.
“Don’t cry,” she whispered.
Julian looked at the child.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He laughed through the tears.
Then Mia climbed onto the chair beside him.
“You have to blow it out.”
Julian stared at the tiny flame.
For the first time in eight years, someone had remembered.
Not because his name was valuable.
Not because he could open doors.
Not because they needed money.
A four-year-old girl had remembered because she thought he looked lonely.
Julian leaned toward the candle.
Then footsteps rushed from the kitchen.
Rosa appeared, pale and breathless.
“Mia!”
She stopped when she saw Julian crying.
Her face drained of color.
“Mr. Mercer, I am so sorry. I told her not to bother you.”
Julian slowly looked at her.
“You knew?”
Rosa swallowed.
“Mia saw the date on your calendar last week.”
Julian turned back toward the drawing.
Then he noticed something written at the bottom that he had not seen before.
A sentence in smaller letters.
Not in Mia’s handwriting.
In Rosa’s.
Some people lose their families. Some are simply waiting to find them.
Julian lifted his eyes.
May you like
Rosa looked terrified.
And in that moment, he realized the woman standing in his home knew far more about loneliness than he had ever bothered to ask.
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