I turned seventy-eight on a quiet Tuesday, my house empty except for a roast chicken and a still-warm lemon pie. Birthdays used to mean noise and laughter, but now I felt invisible. I tried anyway — set the good tablecloth, polished the silverware, made the effort.
When my kids arrived, they barely noticed. Cheryl complained about the temperature, Todd sneered at the smell of home cooking, and June criticized the wallpaper. Dinner passed with silence, their phones, and careless remarks. They left quickly, taking the pie and leaving me alone with my candles. I laughed — a dry, tired laugh.
By morning, I was ready. I called Todd and June separately, hinting at a sudden inheritance. Suddenly, their interest in me skyrocketed. Todd brought expensive groceries, June flowers, and both hovered like vultures. I recorded their every move in my notebook, marking sincerity and selfishness.
Finally, I invited them for “tea to discuss my will.” Alongside them, I had Harry, a kind homeless man who had helped me without expecting anything. I announced that everything would go to him. Shock, anger, and disbelief filled the room.
When they left, Harry and I laughed. There was no fortune — just a lesson: people only value you when they think there’s something in it. And for the first time in months, I felt alive, knowing I didn’t need their permission to value myself.