inside, there was a silence that had started to feel heavier than grief.
That day was my birthday.
No one called in the morning.
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No one came by.
By late afternoon, I was sitting at the kitchen table with a small piece of cake I had bought for myself, staring at the candle I did not even have the heart to light.
And then, for the first time in years, I did something impulsive.
I put on my best dress.
A soft dark blue one I had not worn in a long time.
I brushed my hair carefully, added a little lipstick, looked at myself in the mirror, and whispered:
“Just one evening, Margaret. You deserve one evening.”
Then I took a bus into the city.
I had no plan.
I only knew I did not want to spend my birthday alone inside that silent house.
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