Family forgot my birthday again — but this time I used my bonus to buy a lake house. I posted photos with one line: “Birthday gift. To myself.”
Their outrage?
Immediate.
Revealing. My heels click against the polished marble of my apartment building’s lobby, echoing in the emptiness of a Tuesday evening.
Another fourteen-hour workday behind me, another milestone reached for Horizon Brands. The client had practically hugged me after my presentation.
I check my phone again.
Still nothing. The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and I step inside, watching my reflection in the mirrored walls. Quinn Edwards, thirty-two years old today, senior PR executive, wearing exhaustion like an expensive perfume.
My green eyes look back at me, searching for something worth celebrating.
The number on my screen doesn’t change. Zero messages, zero calls.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I’m a grown woman who handles multi-million-dollar accounts.
Birthdays are for children.
But when I unlock my apartment door, the small cake I’d bought myself that morning sits accusingly on my coffee table. A single candle stands unlit in its center. A pathetic little soldier awaiting orders that won’t come.
“Happy birthday to me,” I whisper to no one.
I drop my leather briefcase by the sofa and kick off my heels, sinking onto the cushions. My apartment feels hollow tonight, despite the careful decorating I’d done to make it feel like home.
The clock on my wall ticks steadily toward midnight, counting down the final minutes of my birthday. My phone remains stubbornly silent.
I reach for my laptop, thinking I’ll distract myself with work until this day is officially over.
Maybe check that proposal one more time. But instead, my fingers betray me, opening Facebook. The first post freezes me in place.
There’s my brother Miles, champagne glass raised high, surrounded by smiling faces.
Behind him hangs a banner: “Congratulations on your promotion.” My father’s arm is draped around his shoulder, pride radiating from his face. My mother stands on his other side, beaming up at her son.
The timestamp shows the photos were posted four hours ago. My birthday.
I scroll down.
Each image a fresh wound. Dozens of pictures. The entire extended family there.
Aunts, uncles, cousins I haven’t seen in years.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
