EVERYONE SANG FOR TABLE TWELVE

Dear Delyara, It was my birthday today. I worked a double shift at the restaurant because another server called out. At 8:15, a family at table twelve told us it was their daughter’s birthday. We dimmed the lights, carried out the cake, clapped, and sang while she covered her face and laughed. I sang too. No one at work knew it was also my birthday. I didn’t tell them because telling people feels like asking them to care, and I wanted to know whether anybody remembered without being reminded. Nobody did. After closing, the kitchen manager offered me a slice of the customer’s leftover cake. One corner had already been eaten, and the frosting said only DAY because the rest of the word had been cut away. I took it home. At midnight, I lit a match because I didn’t have a candle. I held it above the cake and made a wish before it burned my fingers. Then I ate the word DAY alone over the sink.