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

That night, when I finally got home, I charged my phone. No birthday messages—just a spam coupon for socks.

But the Post-it burned a hole in my pocket. I dialed.

A warm, gravelly voice answered. “Hello?”

“Hi,” I said. “This is Anna. Did you… give me a bag at St. Columba’s today?”

“Oh!” she brightened. “Yes, I hoped you’d call.”

“Wait—how did you know my mom?”

She paused. “I met her in the garden behind the hospice. She was sitting alone, so we talked. She told me about you. How proud she was.”

I swallowed hard. “She told you I’d be 31 today.”

“She wasn’t sure she’d make it,” Jinny said gently. “So she gave me that bag. She told me where to find you. Said you’d be too stubborn to take the day off.”

And she was right.

Finding My Way Back

Over the next few weeks, I visited Jinny often. She used to be a nurse too. Now she volunteered, arranging flowers, walking patients through sleepless nights.

She shared crossword puzzles, little candies wrapped in wax paper. Sometimes we spoke of my mom. Sometimes we didn’t.

One afternoon, she handed me a photo—my mother on a stone bench, smiling softly at something out of frame.

“This was the day she gave me the birthday bag,” Jinny said. “She asked me to tell you something, if you ever needed to hear it.”

I looked up, bracing myself.

“She said, ‘Tell Anna she was always enough. Even on the days she felt she wasn’t.’”

The tears came before I could stop them.

Small Steps Forward

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