No One Remembered My Birthday—Except A Stranger Who Shouldn’t Have Known

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

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