An hour later, I left work anyway.
When I arrived, she smiled and said she’d known I’d come. That was the first year I realized I wasn’t attending because of the money anymore.
The gifts started around year three. Nothing expensive, nothing dramatic. A bookmark. An old recipe card. A paperback novel. A snow globe from a town I’d never visited.
They always felt random. When I thanked her, she’d smile and say, “It reminded me of someone.” That was all. No explanation.
The seat never changed. Every birthday, the chair beside hers waited for me, and every year, somebody else ended up standing because that chair remained empty until I arrived.
One year, I finally asked. “Why am I always sitting here?”
Mrs. Hale smiled. “Because that’s your seat.” Then she changed the subject.
That answer bothered me for years.
The guests changed constantly. Neighbors came and went. Friends came and went. Even relatives came and went.
I was the only person who attended every birthday, the only constant, the only one who always sat beside her.
Sometimes I’d catch people watching us, curious, as though they knew something I didn’t.
