imagined my 60th birthday would feel comforting — a full dinner table, laughter, and the familiar voices of my children.
Instead, the house was painfully quiet. The food I prepared slowly went cold, and every passing minute made the empty chairs feel heavier. When someone finally knocked on the door, it didn’t sound like family at all.
I waited four hours for my six children to arrive.
Four long hours sitting alone at a table set for seven, surrounded by plates of food and a heart full of hope.
When I married their father, he always said he wanted a big family.
