I almost forgot my dad’s birthday this year.

That sentence alone feels impossible to write. Grief has a way of making certain dates feel etched into your bones, and yet life—messy, exhausting, relentless life—can sometimes blur even the moments you thought you’d never miss.

Growing up, my dad never made much of a fuss about his birthday. In fact, I can barely remember celebrating it at all. He was never the type to want attention or fanfare. Birthdays came and went quietly, just another day on the calendar.

But something changed when I became his caregiver. Suddenly, his birthday became one of his favorite times of the year. Maybe it was the joy of being surrounded by people who cared about him. Maybe it was the comfort of community. Maybe it was simply that as we age, we learn to treasure the moments we once overlooked.

At his retirement community, he loved having his friends gather around to sing “Happy Birthday.” His home health aide and I would arrange the cake, help coordinate the celebration, and make sure everything felt special. He would get dressed in a suit and tie, looking sharp and proud, with that unmistakable smile on his face. Seeing him so happy made me happy. Those birthdays became gifts for all of us.

This past year has been heavy. The reduction in force and everything that followed has brought stress, uncertainty, and a kind of emotional fatigue I’m still trying to shake. On top of that, I had my daughter’s four-month pediatrician appointment—the first one I was attending alone while my companion was out of town setting up our new home (a story for another day). Life felt full and fractured all at once.

Then I realized what day it was.

My dad’s birthday.

I quickly did the annual joint Facebook post with my brother, but afterward I just sat with the feeling of missing him. This was the third birthday since he left us, and somehow it still doesn’t feel easier. People say time heals, but I think time mostly teaches you how to carry the loss. Some days you carry it gracefully. Some days you almost forget the date and feel guilty for being human.

But there was one bright moment that day. For the first time, my baby rolled over. A milestone every parent waits for, and one that happened on her grandfather’s birthday. It felt like a little wink from heaven—a birthday gift to him, or maybe from him to us.

I hate that she will never meet him. I hate that she won’t know his voice, his humor, the way he lit up in a suit and tie, or how proud he would have been to be her grandfather. I sometimes regret not having her earlier, wishing their lives could have overlapped.

But maybe love doesn’t work only through meetings and memories. Maybe sometimes it works through timing, through signs, through milestones that land on meaningful days. Maybe she knows him in ways I can’t explain.

This year, I almost forgot my dad’s birthday. But perhaps what matters most is that even in forgetting the date for a moment, I could never forget him.