That should have been my first clue.
The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Hale, then led me directly to a chair beside hers, as though she’d been saving it.
The party itself was pleasant enough. People talked, laughed, shared stories.
At the end of the evening, Mrs. Hale handed me an envelope. Inside was $100, exactly as promised.
Then she asked, “Do you think you’ll be available next year?”
I laughed. “You plan your birthdays that far ahead?”
“I do.”
A year later, another invitation arrived. Then another. Then another.
By the fourth year, it felt normal. By the sixth, it felt expected. By the tenth, Mrs. Hale had become one of the most important people in my life.
Which was strange, because technically, she was still a woman I’d met outside a grocery store.
The money continued. Every year she handed me an envelope, and every year I tried to refuse it. Every year she insisted, until eventually I stopped arguing.
The strange part wasn’t the money. The strange part was everything else.
