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…

My shoulders shook. I wiped my face with the edge of the tablecloth and sat in the silence, letting it hurt. No one called.

No one texted. Not even a happy birthday mama. At around 1030, I wrapped the pie in foil and put everything in the fridge.

I blew out the candles. I changed into my nightgown. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the purple suitcase by the door.

Still packed. Still waiting. I turned off the light and laid down slowly the ache in my knees a little sharper than usual.

I stared at the ceiling fan as it turned the software of the blades the only sound in the room. I folded my hands over my stomach and whispered, Maybe they forgot. I tried to believe that.

But somewhere deep down, I knew. They hadn’t forgotten. They just didn’t come.

The morning after my 75th birthday, I woke up to a still house. Not the peaceful kind of still. The hollow kind.

I sat on the edge of my bed for a long time, staring at the little purple suitcase I had packed and repacked for weeks. The tag still hung from the handle untouched. A part of me still wanted to believe the trip was simply delayed like Andre said that it would happen another day.

That I just needed to be patient. I went through my usual motions. Brushed my teeth.

Tied my scarf tight. Shuffled into the kitchen in my slippers. But everything felt slow, like I was dragging my bones through a dream.

I made a cup of tea, but didn’t drink it. Opened the fridge, looked at the pie, closed it again. I didn’t have the energy to warm up leftovers.

The dishes from last night were still stacked in the sink. I didn’t touch them either. I sat on the couch wrapped in my old knit shawl the one Harold gave me before he passed.

It smelled faintly like cedar and lavender. I stared at the floor for a long time, listening to the ticking clock on the wall. It was almost noon and still no calls.

No texts. Not even a sorry we missed you mama. I held on to that sliver of hope that maybe today they’d reach out.

Maybe they got the day wrong. Then I heard a knock. Three soft taps at the door.

I got up slowly and peeked through the curtain. It was Tyrell. Sweet boy.

He lived two doors down, always polite, always checking in on me. His grandmother raised him right. I opened the door.

Hey Miss D, he said holding a plastic grocery bag and smiling. Got you that lemon dish soap you mentioned? Oh bless your heart, I said stepping aside. Come on in baby.

He walked in and set the bag on the counter. I was about to offer him some tea, but he noticed my phone sitting on the table. You still having trouble with your apps? He asked, picking it up.

I nodded. It’s been freezing up again. You know how I am with that thing.

I press the wrong button and everything disappears. Tyrell chuckled. Let me take a look.

He sat down at the table swiping through the settings. I went back to wiping the counter just to give my hand something to do. Then I heard him pause…