I’m 75. I set the table for five and ate by myself while my family sipped cocktails under palm trees—on my dime. What followed showed me who was truly in my corner.

The Promise
A long-awaited trip became a hard lesson in trust.

I had been promised something I hadn’t felt in years—simple happiness, a touch of sparkle, the feeling of being seen again. I dressed up. I cooked. I waited.

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Back in February, my son Andre said they were planning something special for my 75th.
— “A real vacation,” he winked. “Someplace warm. Mama, just pack your nice outfits. We’ll take care of the rest.”

I almost dropped my coffee, I was so thrilled. I hadn’t gone anywhere but the pharmacy and church in years. Since my husband passed, I hadn’t seen the ocean.

When I asked about the money, Andre brushed it off.
— “Didn’t you work all your life? You deserve this. Let us handle it.”

A week later, he asked to put the group tickets on my card “to lock in the price.” I hesitated, then trusted my boy.

He said late April or early May. When April passed, he told me it would be right on my birthday. I believed him. I even bought a purple suitcase on clearance, tag still on. I set it by the front door and packed slowly over two weeks—my hibiscus sundress, church sandals, the sunhat I hadn’t worn in eight years, and my husband’s handkerchief for comfort. I felt like he’d be with us in spirit.

The night before my birthday, Andre called, his voice rushed like he was driving.
— “Mama, we have to push the trip a little.”

My heart sank.
— “How long is ‘a little’?”
— “A couple weeks. Scheduling issues.”
I swallowed.
— “All right. At least you’ll come by tomorrow for dinner?”
A pause.
— “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

That was enough for me. Life gets busy. Plans change. At least I’d see them.

The Table for Five
A house prepared for joy; a chair left empty.

On the morning of my birthday, I put on gospel music, brewed coffee, and started cooking. Fried chicken, yams, mac and cheese, green beans with smoked turkey. I baked a sweet potato pie from scratch—with real vanilla this time. I set out the good china with the gold rim and laid the table for five: me; Andre; his wife, Brianna; their daughter, Imani; and maybe Tyrell from down the street if they brought him along.

I wore the blue floral dress my husband always loved. I curled my hair, added lipstick, and lit the tall candles I usually saved for Easter. By five, I was ready. By six, I started to worry. By seven, I reheated the food—twice. By eight, I stopped looking out the window. By nine, I sat at the table alone.

The candles had melted low. The food was cold. My lipstick had faded. I stared at the empty plates, telling myself maybe there had been an emergency, a mix-up, a dead phone. But I knew. No one was coming.

I ate a few bites, but nothing tasted the same. I looked at the birthday card I bought myself at the dollar store—“You’re still glowing,” in pink glitter. Cute in the aisle, hollow now. Quiet tears fell, the kind you hold back all day. No calls. No texts. Not even a “happy birthday, Mama.”

By ten-thirty, I wrapped the pie, put everything in the fridge, blew out the candles, and changed into my nightgown. I sat on the bed, staring at the purple suitcase by the door—still packed, still waiting. I lay down, listened to the ceiling fan, and whispered, “Maybe they forgot.” But I knew they hadn’t.