The morning passed peacefully. I sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and looked at my phone.
That day I woke up earlier than usual. 70th birthday anniversary – a special moment that I had been waiting for with hope. I imagined that my house would be filled with laughter, wishes, and loved ones who would come to celebrate this special day with me. After all, 70 years is no small feat.
The morning passed peacefully. I sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and looked at the phone.
I waited. I was sure he would call. My son, Marek, always remembered my birthday, even when he was very busy. Last year he sent a beautiful bouquet of roses and promised that we would organize something special for my 70th. “Mom, it will be a surprise, you'll see!” – he said then on the phone.
But the phone was silent.
Around noon I decided to call myself. After all, maybe something had happened, maybe he had forgotten his phone, maybe he was at work. I dialed his number and waited for him to pick up. After a few rings I heard his voice, but not the one I expected. He was impatient.
– Hi, Mom. What's wrong?? I'm busy – he said quickly.
– Marek… It's my birthday today – I said quietly, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.
There was a moment of silence that seemed like an eternity.
– Oh, Mom, I'm sorry. I completely forgot. I have so much work, and the kids are sick… You know how it is. I'll call you later, okay? – he replied, as if trying to end the conversation quickly.
I didn't have time to answer because he had already hung up.
I sat with the phone in my hand, feeling tears welling up in my eyes. He forgot. My son, my only child, forgot about my anniversary. Instead of wishes, I heard excuses that only hurt more.
In the afternoon, my neighbor, Mrs. Halina, came with a small cake. „All the best, Mrs. Krysia!– she said with a smile. It was nice, but it wasn't the same. Deep inside I wanted Marek to stand on the doorstep with a bouquet of flowers, to hug me and tell me that he loved me, that I was important to him.
In the evening I looked at the table in the dining room. It was empty, although I had set my best cups and saucers there in the morning, counting on guests. The candles I wanted to light were untouched. I was alone.
The doorbell rang late in the evening. My heart started beating faster – maybe Marek had come after all? Maybe he wanted to surprise me? I opened the door, but it was the postman who had mixed up the addresses. The hope I felt faded like a candle flame in the wind.
The phone never rang again. Marek didn't call back, didn't send a message. For him, I was one of many responsibilities that could be put off until later.
Sitting in an empty house, I realized that sometimes the greatest pain is not loneliness, but being forgotten by those we love the most.
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