I walked to the living room and sat down on the couch, still wearing my good blue dress. The one my husband used to say made my eyes look brighter. I’d worn it for them, for the dinner that never happened. For the birthday no one remembered.

I sat there for what felt like hours, but maybe it was only minutes. Time does strange things when your heart is breaking.

The truth is, I’d spent the entire evening at a restaurant alone, sitting at a table set for five, watching other families laugh and blow out candles and take pictures together. I’d told the waiter they were running late. Then I told him they were stuck in traffic. Then I stopped making excuses and just paid the bill.

The waiter had smiled gently when he handed me the receipt.

“Happy birthday, ma’am,” he’d said.

And that was the only time anyone said it that night.