A Stranger Left an Envelope Beside My Bed on My Sixty-Second Birthday—Then I Found His Photograph with My Son

He had not wished me a happy birthday.

I stood beside his unfinished coffee for a while.

Sixty-two wasn’t an age I had feared.

I still climbed the stairs, still carried my own groceries, still knew exactly which neighbor needed a book left outside her door.

What hurt was how easily I had become someone whose important days could be postponed.

In the bedroom, the lone earring lay beside my comb.

I opened a drawer, found its mate caught in a folded scarf, and put the pair together.