My name is Eleanor and today is my 90th birthday, and I’m staring at a wilted bouquet of lilies on the windowsill of my room here. The petals are curling, a bit like the edges of old photographs. They were a gift, I think, but I can’t quite recall who brought them. My mind plays tricks on me these days. It’s my birthday, I’m fairly certain. The nurses mentioned something about cake, but the day seems to be dragging on, quiet and still.
I have a daughter, a beautiful girl with her father’s eyes. We used to be close, like two peas in a pod. We’d spend hours in the garden, her tiny hands helping me plant roses. Now, the garden is just a blur of green outside my window, and my hands tremble too much to hold a trowel. She moved away years ago, chasing dreams and a fast-paced life. I understood, of course, or at least I tried to. But the calls became less frequent, the visits dwindled, and now… well, now there’s just silence.
I’m not bitter, just… hollow. Like a seashell, beautiful on the outside, but empty within. I miss the sound of her laughter, the warmth of her hugs. I miss being needed. All I crave is a simple “Happy Birthday, Mom,” a reminder that I’m still here, still remembered.
I know she’s busy, that life gets in the way. But today, on my birthday, a small part of me hoped… hoped for a sign, a whisper of connection. Perhaps a card, a phone call, anything to fill this aching void.
If you’re reading this, whoever you are, please think of the mothers and grandmothers, the ones who have given so much and now sit quietly, waiting. Waiting for a sliver of the love they so freely gave to be returned. Remember them, not just on their birthdays, but every day. Because time is precious, and the opportunity to say “I love you” is a gift that shouldn’t be wasted.