08/30/2025
NO ONE REMEMBERED MY BIRTHDAY—EXCEPT A STRANGER WHO SHOULDN’T HAVE KNOWN
I turn 31 standing under the harsh lights of the med room, unwrapping a sterile gauze pack with fingers that won’t stop cracking from overwashing. My name’s Anna. Brown hair in a messy knot, tired down to the bone.
No balloons, no calls. My phone’s dead anyway. I forgot to charge it last night—too busy finishing chart notes and crying quietly in my car.
I told no one it was my birthday. I didn’t want the pity. But I thought maybe someone would remember. My mom used to call first thing every year. This year she doesn’t.
Not even a text from Léonie, who once made me a carrot cake from scratch in residency.
But I still swiped on some blush before rounds. Still brought extra coffee pods for the break room. Still smiled at the elderly man in 403 who calls me “nurse” even though I’ve told him three times I’m not.
And somewhere around hour ten of my shift, while I’m holding pressure on a post-op bleed, a woman I don’t recognize taps my shoulder.
She says, “You're Dr. Anna, right?” I nod, wary. She hands me a brown paper bag with my name scrawled in Sharpie.
“There’s a note inside,” she adds, before slipping away down the hall.
I open it. I see the handwriting. And I freeze. Because there’s no way—
— story picks up in the first 🗨 👇