Florence: The Birthday Balloon

There was nothing Florence loved more than making her child feel special. She had a gift for it, an instinct as natural as breathing. From the moment they were born, she showered them with warmth—gentle lullabies in the night, the scent of homemade biscuits filling their home, whispered encouragement before every big moment. But her greatest tradition was the birthday balloon.

Every year, without fail, she would tie a note to a helium balloon and send it soaring. The message was always personal, always filled with love. "You are my greatest gift." "The world is brighter because you're in it." "No matter where you go, my love follows." Her child would find it waiting outside their bedroom door, floating like magic, ready to bring joy to the start of another year.

Even when her illness took hold, even when she grew too weak to stand, Florence made sure the balloon arrived. It became more than a tradition—it was a promise. A tether between mother and child, a simple but powerful reminder that love never fades.

When Florence passed, the world grew colder. The first birthday without her arrived with unbearable silence. No laughter, no scent of baking, no soft voice humming in the kitchen. The air was still.

But then, just as the morning sun crested over the horizon, something stirred outside. A gentle knocking against the windowpane. And there it was—a single balloon, the exact shade of yellow she always chose, its string curled neatly, and a note tied just below.

The message read, in her unmistakable handwriting: "I’m still with you. Happy birthday, my love."

At first, disbelief took hold. Perhaps it was a coincidence, a prank, a misplaced relic from the past. But when the next year came, and then the next, the balloon appeared each time, always untouched by the wind, always carrying a new note, Florence’s love written across the paper as if she had never left.

Neighbors began to whisper. No one had ever seen anyone leave the balloon. No deliveryman came, no friend or family member admitted to continuing the tradition. It was as if the air itself carried her devotion, as if Florence had found a way to keep her promise from beyond the veil.

Some tried to explain it away. "Perhaps someone else took up the ritual in secret?" "Maybe the balloons were left behind, forgotten, and simply found their way back?" But those who had ever loved a mother like Florence knew the truth—there are bonds even death cannot break.

Now, the legend of Florence’s birthday balloon spreads far beyond one family. Strangers who have lost their mothers have reported finding yellow balloons on their own special days. Some say they’ve seen them drifting through the sky, carrying words meant for those who still grieve. Others believe Florence’s spirit listens for those in need of comfort, delivering small reminders of love wherever they are needed most.

So, if you wake on your birthday and see a lone balloon outside your door, don’t be afraid. Perhaps it’s for you. Perhaps it carries a message you need to hear. For love lingers in ways we cannot always explain—and Florence never forgets.