That day was my birthday.
No one called in the morning.
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.
I ended up in a small hotel bar downtown. The lights were warm, the music was low, and people were laughing softly at tables around the room. I sat near the corner and ordered a glass of red wine.
At first, I felt foolish.
An older woman alone in a bar.
Then he appeared.
His name was Adrian.
