In a year, she forgot the concept of space, the purposelessness of dates and time. In a year, there were Mondays through Fridays and weekends she craved because the children returned home to their parents and stayed. In a year, there was the first month, the second, the miserable third, and the fourth which she often ignored. She was born in this month, on the 28th day.

She refused any overzealous platitudes of the anniversary, allowing herself only the guilty pleasure of a note hidden just within her threadbare pillow.

Happy birthday, Laura, signed Love.

She would sleep well tonight.

 

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