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

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.

The Voice on the Line

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