The woman turned seventya milestone birthday! To mark the occasion, she bought fabric and ordered a dress, elegant and lovely. She even splurged on a pair of expensive silver earrings online. When she tried them on and glanced in the mirror, she saw herself transformed, radiant.
“Life just isnt the same without a little something new,” she thought. “It lifts the spirits.”
Then she set to work preparing a feast for her guests. Her sisters were coming, and her brother was bringing their elderly mother, who would soon be ninety-five. The table gleamed with fine china, and the food looked irresistible. When the guests arrived, they seated the frail old mother in the place of honour. As usual, she would sit awhile, then rest in the next room when she grew tired.
The birthday woman changed into her new dress and earrings, then stepped out to greet her guests. They gasped in admiration. She glowed under their praise, flattered and pleased. The first toast was raised, then the second, as tradition dictated. But then, one sister spoke up.
“Youve surprised me,” she said. “Buying a new dress at seventyand such expensive earrings! Whats the point? You hardly go anywhere anymore. No husband to impress, no work events, no nights at the theatre. Youve got plenty of lovely old dresseswear those out first.”
The other sisters nodded in agreement, chiming in about their own overstuffed wardrobes and unworn clothes.
Suddenly, the new dress felt tight, constricting. The earrings weighed heavy on her ears. A hollowness settled in her chest. The thought stung: *Seventy is seventy. Lifes passed me by, and here I am, a dressed-up old woman.* Her smile faded, her expression turning stony.
She had no appetite, no desire to talk. The guests, sensing the shift, fell quiet.
Then her mother, silent until now, spoke.
“My mother lived nearly a hundred,” she said. “So did my father. Long life runs in our blood. When my mother turned ninety, my father went to the market and bought her a deep red shawl. At dinner, he pulled it from hiding and draped it over her shoulders. She sat there, young again, stroking that shawl with her aged handslike shed shed twenty years.”
She paused, then added softly, “The soul matters most. We dont exist for thingsthings exist for us. They bring us joy. But what truly makes us happy is love, and the kindness of those who care.”
Then she fixed a sharp gaze on the sister whod spoken out of turn. “Mind that poisonous tongue of yours. Words arent to be wasted.” With that, she rose to rest in the next room.
The table stayed heavy with silence. The offending sister muttered an apology, but the air remained thick. Conversation limped along, jokes fell flat. The warmth had gone.
Then the door flew openher favourite niece and her husband burst in, laughing, arms full of gifts. The husband knelt, presenting a bouquet of roses, then sang a line from an old ballad. The niece opened a small box: inside lay a string of river pearls.
“Where on earth did you find these?” someone gasped.
The niece clasped them around her aunts neck, tugging her to the mirror, hugging her, clapping with delight. The room hummed back to life. Glasses clinked, toasts were made, laughter returnedreal and unforced. The poison had dissolved, replaced by warmth and joy.
And as she sat there, radiant in her pearls and new dress, the woman thought, *Seventy? Thats nothing. Theres so much life aheadjust live it, and be glad.*
And so she did.
