The woman turned seventy. A milestone! For the occasion, she bought fabric and ordered a dresselegant, exquisite. Online, she found a pair of silver earrings, costly and shimmering. When she put them on and gazed into the mirror, she saw herself grow younger.
“One simply cant go without something new now and then,” she thought. “It lifts the spirit.”
Then she set to cooking, preparing delicacies for her guests. Her sisters were coming, and her brother would bring their frail mother, who was nearing ninety-five. The table gleamed with fine china, and the food looked irresistible.
When the guests arrived, the elderly mother was seated in the place of honour. She would sit awhile, as always, then rest in the next room when she tired.
The birthday woman changed into her new dress, fastened the earrings, and stepped out. A gasp rippled through the room. She glowed under their admirationhow lovely to be seen, to be valued. The first toast was raised, then, as tradition demanded, the second. But then one sister spoke:
“Youve surprised me. Ordering a dress at seventy. And earringsso extravagant! Whats the point? Youre always at home, havent been out in years. No man to impress, no work, no theatre trips. Your wardrobes stuffed with lovely old thingswear those out instead.”
The other sisters nodded. They prattled on about their own overstuffed closets, clothes theyd never wear out.
Suddenly, the new dress felt tight, constricting. The earrings grew heavy, tugging at her lobes. A hollowness opened in her chest. The thought cut deep: *Seventy is seventy. Lifes behind me, and here I sit, a ridiculous old doll.*
Her smile faded, her face turned to stone. She had no appetite, no desire to speak. The guests sensed the shift and hushed.
Then her mother, silent until now, spoke:
“My mother lived nearly a hundred. My father too. Long life runs in our blood.”
She paused, then continued, “When my mother turned ninety, my father went to the market and bought her a crimson shawl. At supper, he pulled it from hiding and draped it over her shoulders.”
Her voice softened. “She sat there, stroking that shawl with her wrinkled hands, looking twenty years younger. Things are for *us*not the other way around. They bring joy. Love and kindness make us happy.”
Then, sharper: “Have you forgotten?”
Turning to the critical sister, she added, “And youhold that vipers tongue. Words arent to be wasted carelessly.”
With that, she rose and left to rest. The table sat in stiff silence. The offending sister muttered an apology, but the air stayed heavy. Conversation limped; jokes fell flat. The poison hung thick.
Thena knock. The favourite niece arrived with her husband, bursting in with bright greetings. The husband knelt, presenting roses, then sang a line from an old ballad. The niece opened a tiny boxinside, a strand of river pearls.
“Where did you find such a thing?”
Laughing, she clasped them around her aunts neck, dragged her to the mirror, hugged her, clappedinfectious delight. The room buzzed anew. Glasses chimed; laughter rang true.
The venom had dissolved. Joy, real and warm, lit every face. Talk flowed, jokes landed, the feast was savoured. And the womanseventy, radiant in her pearlssat smiling.
*Seventy?* she mused. *So much ahead. Just to live, just to be glad.*
