My husband and I had been dining together at this same small restaurant for 50 years — and after his death, a stranger gave me a note that revealed his secret.

I thought it was just something dramatic that people said to get attention, like when they sighed too loudly or kept their sunglasses inside.

Back then, birthdays meant cake, and cake meant chocolate... and chocolate meant life was good.

I used to make fun of people who said that birthdays made them sad.

But now I understand.

These days, birthdays make the atmosphere heavier. It's not just because of the candles, the silence in the house, or the pain in my knees. It's because I'm aware.

The kind of awareness that only comes after living long enough to lose people who seemed eternal.

Today is my 85th birthday.

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