I planned a quiet BBQ for my 40th—just friends, food, and maybe a few dad jokes. I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate. My parents had passed months apart, and I felt more alone than ever. But Mara, my wife, insisted. “You need this,” she said.

The evening started normally—until every guest arrived with black-wrapped gifts. I thought it was a strange coincidence. As more appeared, and people exchanged knowing glances, I sensed something was up.

Mara tapped her glass. “Time to open the gifts.” One by one: a black mug, a plain T-shirt, a book. Then baby items. Confused, I looked at Mara.

She handed me the final box—tiny black baby shoes and a note: “You’re going to be a dad. Four months in.”

After ten years and three miscarriages, I cried. The gifts had clues I missed. That night, with Mara’s hand in mine, I felt something new—hope.