The Forgotten Day
I turned 31 under the fluorescent buzz of the supply room lights, tearing open a sterile gauze pack with fingers cracked from endless scrubbing. My name’s Anna—brown hair pulled into a messy knot, exhaustion written all over me.
There were no balloons, no calls. My phone was dead anyway—I had left it uncharged the night before after a long shift and a quiet cry in the car.
I hadn’t told anyone it was my birthday. I didn’t want sympathy. Still, I thought maybe someone would remember. My mom always did. This year, she didn’t.
Not even a text from Léonie, who once baked me a carrot cake during residency.
Still, I dabbed on blush before rounds. Still, I stocked extra coffee pods for the break room. Still, I smiled at the old man in 403 who kept calling me “nurse,” though I’d corrected him three times.
The Unexpected Gift
Somewhere around the tenth hour of my shift, while I pressed down on a patient’s post-op bleed, a woman I didn’t know tapped my shoulder.
“You’re Dr. Anna, right?” she asked. I nodded, cautious. She handed me a brown paper bag with my name scribbled in marker.
“There’s a note inside,” she said softly, before disappearing down the hall.
I opened it. And froze. The handwriting—I knew it instantly. My mother’s.
But she had been gone for seven months.
I remembered watching the flat line on the monitor, signing the DNR papers, laying her to rest with her favorite purple shawl that still smelled faintly of rose soap.
My hands trembled as I read the note:
“Happy Birthday, sweetheart. I knew this one might be hard. I asked someone kind to deliver this. Love you always—Mom.”
My knees gave out, and I sank onto a step stool by the cabinet.
Inside the bag was a small tin of lemon cookies—her recipe. And a Post-it with a phone number, signed: “Jinny.”
I didn’t know anyone by that name.
