Moving slowly across her cozy kitchen, Dorothy shuffled in her slippers, the soft fabric brushing gently against the old wooden floorboards.
She paused for a second to push her heavy glasses up the bridge of her nose, which kept sliding down.
Her fingers brushed the curled corner of the calendar hanging near the fridge, worn from being used all year.
She squinted slightly, counting each date until she found today’s, which she had circled brightly in red ink: “My Birthday.”
A small smile formed as a warmth began to grow in her chest. It felt just like the peaceful sunshine that trickled in through her curtains on a quiet morning.
Even when she spent them alone, birthdays always gave her a small sense of joy and hope.
Putting her thoughts aside, Dorothy turned back toward the stove and got busy with dinner prep.
Before long, the kitchen came alive with familiar sounds—the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the low sizzle of meat in the pan, and the bubbling of sauces on the stove.
She moved gently from one corner to another, as if waltzing to an invisible melody, putting her heart into each dish she prepared—meals that used to bring smiles to her children’s faces.
The smell of warm, freshly baked bread filled the air, blending perfectly with the savory scents of roasted vegetables and her special chicken recipe.
Next, she reached for the pie she had baked that morning, setting it gently on the counter like it was a piece of treasure.
She picked up a butter knife and began spreading the frosting across the pie slowly, smoothing every edge with care. In her mind, she pictured Miley and Ryan’s happy faces as they took a bite and laughed, just like old times.
When she was done, she placed the pie proudly in the middle of the table, the centerpiece of the evening.
With her tasks complete, Dorothy eased herself into a chair, feeling her body relax under the weight of the long day.
