'Do Not Open Until August 5th': The Date on the Package Was My Real Birthday Only My Late Mother Knew – Story of the Day

A package arrived on my doorstep marked ‘Do Not Open Until August 5th.’ That was my real birthday. No one knew it, except my late mother. Turns out, someone else did too. But why?

I never planned to return to that town.

Honestly? I thought I never would.

But when Dad passed away — and Mom had already been gone for a few years — coming back became the only logical choice.

Not for the house or the bakery. But because they were the only things that truly felt mine.

I grew up there, wrapped in the sunlight on worn-out curtains that Mom insisted on washing by hand. She claimed machines “don’t understand fabric.”

And you know what? I kinda believed her.

Sid and Nancy were my adoptive parents. But not once did I feel like a guest in their lives. They chose me — that’s what Mom always said.

“From love, not from blood. That’s better.”

So, finally, I stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by boxes like a clumsy archaeologist. The couch was buried under childhood photo albums I hadn’t dared to open yet.

And somewhere... buried deep in a sea of mixing bowls, muffin tins, and flour sifters — my coffee machine. Missing. Again.

“Great,” I muttered, pushing aside a cake stand. “How am I supposed to open the bakery without caffeine? That’s practically illegal.”

I tossed a kitchen towel over my shoulder — like Mom used to — and marched toward the next box.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. I flinched. No one was supposed to know I’d moved in yet. Not even Mrs. Ellis, the neighbor who noticed everything. When I opened the door, there stood a courier.

“Miss Cindy K.?”

“Yes, that’s me...”

“I’ve got a package for you. Sign here.”

I scribbled my name, and he walked off, leaving a box in my hands. No branding, no return address. Just plain white wrapping paper.

I carried the box to the kitchen table, sat down, and began to peel the paper away. And then... I saw the writing.

“Do not open until August 5th.”

I froze.

August 5th.

No one had ever written that date to me before. In every document I’d ever seen, my birthday was listed as August 6th. That had always been the case since I was transferred from the orphanage to the K. family.

I remembered asking once:

“Mom, are you sure my birthday is on the sixth?”

“That’s what it says on the paperwork, sweetheart. So that’s when we celebrate!”

But I always knew the truth — my real birthday was the fifth. Some things you just feel in your bones.

Moreover, one of the caretakers at the orphanage whispered in my ear once, like she was sharing a state secret:

“Sweetie, you were supposed to be listed as the fifth… but something got mixed up. Don’t worry about it.”

I looked around. Silence outside. The neighbors weren’t home yet. The old maple tree near the gate swayed in the wind, its leaves rustling in an oddly ominous way.

“How the hell did they know my new address?”

I looked at the writing again.

“Do not open until August 5th.”

It was August 4th.

***

The following day, my birthday arrived... but I completely forgot.

Totally.

The chaos started first thing in the morning. The bakery door couldn’t be unlocked, the sourdough starter escaped its bowl, and the coffee machine blinked at me with a red “ERROR.”

“Great start.”

The bakery came to life by midday: the smell of warm buns in the air, the first customers trickling in.

Most of them still remembered the Clarks. Even Mrs. Ellis showed up with a bouquet of wildflowers, pretending not to snoop.

“Cindy, you even brought back that old recipe cabinet?”

“Of course! I’m lost without it,” I smiled, wiping my hands on my apron.

Meanwhile, my brain was buzzing with a list:

“Order a new mixer, call the cinnamon supplier, find decent coffee beans...”

By the evening, I sank into a chair with a bowl of cherries and suddenly remembered.

The box.

I jumped like I’d been stung. It was still sitting on the kitchen shelf.

Of course, today is August 5th! Today is my real birthday.

Carefully, I opened it. Inside was a small velvet box. And in it... a pendant. That pendant.

“No way...”

I remembered it from childhood, like a hazy dream. It was my mom’s pendant.

And there was a note. Just two lines:

“I missed you all these years. Sorry, I couldn’t find you sooner. Mom.”

What?! Was this some kind of twisted joke? No!

My hands were trembling. The pendant shimmered faintly, as if teasing me. And then — a knock at the door.

My heart dropped. I peeked out into the evening light.

A woman stood on the porch.

Elegant. Well-dressed. Something about her seemed... too perfect.

I opened the door. My first instinct was to ask, “Who are you?” But she spoke first.

“Cindy... It’s me. Your mother. I know this is sudden, but I’ve been searching for you for so long.”

I felt paralyzed.

“When I found out you lived here… I had to come. We can finally be together again.”

“My mother? But... I was told my whole life she died in childbirth.”

“Your aunt made you believe that. She gave you up to foster care while I was in a coma. By the time I woke up... you were gone.”

“But that’s... impossible! I grew up believing I had no mother.”

“I understand. You don’t have to believe me right away. Just give me a chance. Come back to me.”

I nodded silently. A storm raged inside me, but I stayed calm on the surface. I opened the door and let her in.

“It’s late. Come in.”

But in my head, another voice was screaming:

“My real mom had a beauty mark on her cheek… This woman’s skin is perfectly smooth.”

I didn’t believe her.

But I decided to play along.

I needed to find out why someone was trying to adopt me again, at thirty.

***

I woke up earlier than usual. Because my instincts didn’t let me sleep. There was someone else in the house — a stranger who claimed to be my mother.

The smell of toasted bread drifted in from the kitchen. For a split second, I could almost pretend it was Mom. My real one.

But no — that wasn’t her.

“Good morning, sweetheart!”

Caitlyn, the woman who’d appeared on my doorstep last night, was already seated at the table, holding my favorite mug.

She was wearing one of Mom’s old flannel shirts. That one stung. It all looked warm. Domestic. Comforting. But something inside me curled in on itself like a cornered animal.

“I made some toast,” she said cheerfully. “And I peeked inside your fridge… Honey, half of those products stink.”

“That’s my health plan,” I replied, sliding into the chair opposite her. “I only keep spoiled food. Cuts down on snacking.”

She laughed. Short. Too perfect. Too placed.

I reached for the kettle and made tea. The coffee she’d brewed was so weak — one scoop for two people, apparently.

“So, have you ever thought about freshening up the place? New curtains, maybe repaint the kitchen?”

“No. I want it just like Mom left it.”

“I understand,” she murmured, eyes scanning the room.

Caitlyn was assessing. Her gaze landed on the recipe cabinet, the drawer where I kept Dad’s legal files, and the small safe in the hallway I always locked.

It wasn’t the look of a sentimental mother. It was the look of a buyer wondering if she could flip the place.

“I could help you, you know. With the business. With the documents. All of it. You just need to trust me.”

“I already do,” I said without hesitation.

Caitlyn reached across the table and took my hand.

“I just want to bring us back together. I don’t want to lose you again. And… well, there might be some legal steps we have to take soon.”

I blinked slowly.

“Formalities, really. I’d like to be your mother officially again.”

Again.

“Of course. Family is everything.”

But in my head, everything clicked. Caitlyn wasn’t my mother.

She was a performer, and this was her audition for a role she thought she could fake.

And me?

I smiled sweetly, took another sip of my tea, and said:

“So... what exactly would this ‘legal process’ involve?”

She smiled back. The game officially began.

***

I agreed to sign the papers.

We were sitting in the bakery office. Caitlyn slipped the adoption forms back into her bag — casually, like she hadn’t been dying to throw them on the table for days.

I touched her arm.

“There’s something I want to do first. A place I want to go to. I need you there with me.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Anything.”

The drive was quiet.

She didn’t ask where we were going, and I didn’t offer. I hummed softly to the radio, fingers tapping on the wheel. She thought she had me.

When we pulled into the cemetery, she blinked.

“Oh… are we visiting… your adoptive parents?”

I shook my head slowly.

“No.”

I led her through the winding paths, past weeping willows and tilted stones, until we stopped at a modest granite headstone.

There was no photo. Just a name, a date. That's all. Caitlyn was shocked.

“You should. She was your sister, wasn’t she?”

Caitlyn's eyes jumped from the headstone to me, searching for some kind of escape. I didn’t look at her.

“This is where my real mother is buried. The one who died giving birth to me. The one you never came to see.”

“Oh, honey... I am your mother.”

“Stop lying to me! You did stay at her house. All these years.”

“Cindy… I was grieving too. She was my sister. I didn’t know what else to do...”

“You didn’t raise me. You didn’t even try. You gave me up. Signed the papers. Disappeared.”

“I was young. I didn’t have a choice...”

“And now, you show up in my kitchen. Calling yourself ‘Mom.’ Because a will appeared. Didn't it?”

Caitlyn looked away. I reached into my bag and pulled out the folded document. Held it out without a word. Her hands didn’t move.

“My lawyer found this within a week. The original will.”

Caitlyn swallowed hard. “Cindy, please…”

“It says my mother left everything to you. But only if you fulfilled one condition.”

“That’s not...”

“You had to adopt me. Not pretend to. Not now. Then.”

She didn’t say another word. Because there was nothing left to deny.

“You were never supposed to find me. You made sure of that when you gave me away without any traceable ties. But now, with everything slipping from your hands, suddenly I matter again.”

Tears welled in her eyes — maybe real, maybe not.

“I just wanted to fix things. I... I never meant to hurt you.”

“No. You meant to use me. And you almost did. But if you’d come to me as my aunt... If you’d just told me the truth… You'd have everything.”

Silence. I watched her lips tremble, but no apology came.

“I think,” I whispered, stepping back, “you should leave. The same way you did thirty-eight years ago.”

Caitlyn turned and walked away.

I stood by the grave for a while. The breeze moved through the trees like a sigh.

“Thank you for my birth, Mom.”

I didn’t need papers to prove who I was.

The recipe cards, the smell of cinnamon, the way I said “Mom” when no one was listening — that was proof enough. The past had tried to rewrite itself. But I had already baked my truth into every corner of this place.

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