My family left me to eat alone on my 75th birthday, using my money to vacation in Europe. So I sold the house while they were gone and moved next door to watch their faces when they came back…

Therefore, I didn’t set the table for ghosts on my 76th birthday. I made a reservation at the community center for the little room. I requested genuine cuisine, nothing extravagant.

Deviled eggs, fried chicken, red beans, and lemon-glazed pound cake. I looked radiant again since I was wearing a warm gold dress, and I extended an invitation to those who had truly come when I was at my lowest. The first to come was Tyrell, accompanied by a Bluetooth speaker playing Mahalia Jackson and Two Dozen Flowers.

Next up was Nora with her dapper clothes and that sage grin. The women from the foundation then arrived. They all wore regal attire, some with canes, some with grandkids in tow.

We chuckled. We performed a dance. We shared tails and pound cake.

Imani also appeared. Indeed, Imani. Silently, she entered.

No grand entrance. She was holding a birthday card when there was a gentle tap on the door. Nothing, not even design, was on her.

Not a single new bracelet, no flawless hair. She seemed anxious. Grandma, she remarked as she stood at the entrance.

I had no idea what they were doing. Actually, I didn’t. You didn’t want to travel according to Daddy.

You were too worn out. I trusted him. However, I later saw the receipts.

And the reality. I’m so sorry. I gave her a glance.

My lone granddaughter used to be my tiny kitchen assistant standing on a stool and using both hands to mix grits. It hurt, baby. I murmured, nodding slowly.

Yes, it did. She took a step forward. Am I allowed to stay? I took a while to respond…