The Loneliest Birthday — But Not for the Reason You Think

She bought herself a small birthday cake, decorated with pink roses, hoping someone—anyone—might stop by. The table was set with paper plates, her phone placed nearby in case it rang. Hours slipped away, and still the house was silent. Finally, she struck a match, her hands trembling as the candles flickered to life. She softly began to sing, her own voice breaking in the stillness. Alone at the table, she drew in a breath, ready to blow out the candles, when suddenly…
The candles flickered in silence. A small cake sat on the kitchen table, its frosting glowing in the soft light of late afternoon. I had picked it out myself earlier that day—a simple white cake with pink roses, the kind my mother used to buy when I was a girl. The woman behind the counter at the bakery smiled kindly when I told her, “It’s for my birthday.” She asked, “Big party tonight?” and I nodded, even though I already knew the truth.
There would be no party.
For weeks, I had dropped hints to my children. A text here, a phone call there—little reminders that their mother was turning another year older. They always answered with cheerful promises: “We’ll see what we can do, Mom,” or “We’ll try to stop by.” But life is busy, and people are busy, and somehow, my birthday slipped quietly onto their calendars like an afterthought.
By five o’clock, the house was still. The table was set with paper plates I had bought just in case. The phone remained silent. I stared at the door, hoping it would creak open, that someone would burst in with laughter and hugs. Instead, the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.
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