The woman had turned seventy. A milestone! For the occasion, shed bought fabric and ordered a dresselegant, refined. To match, shed found silver earrings online, delicate and costly. When she put them on and glanced in the mirror, she saw herself anew. “One cant go on without a little something new,” she thought. “It lifts the spirits.”
Then she set to cooking, preparing treats for her guests. Her sisters were coming, and her brother was bringing their elderly mother, whod soon be ninety-five. The table gleamed with fine china, and the food looked fit for a feast. When the guests arrived, the old mother was seated in the place of honour. Shed sit awhile, as always, then retire to the next room when she tired.
The birthday woman changed into her new dress, fastened the earrings, and stepped out to greet her family. They gasped. She glowed at their surprise, their admiration. The first toast was raised, then, as tradition dictated, the second. But then one sister spoke: “I must say, youve shocked me. Ordering a dress at seventy! And those earringsso extravagant. Whatever for? You never go out, not for years. No husband to impress, no work, no theatre trips. Your wardrobes full of lovely old thingswear those out first.”
The others nodded. They began recounting how their own closets overflowed with unworn clothes.
Suddenly, the new dress felt tight, the earrings heavy, dragging at her ears. A hollowness settled in her chest. The thought struck like a blade: *Seventy is seventy. Lifes passed me by, and here I sit, a dressed-up old woman.* Her smile vanished, her face turning to stone. She had no wish to speak, to eatthe food turned to ash. The guests, sensing the shift, fell quiet.
Then her mother, silent until now, spoke: “My mother lived nearly a hundred. 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 shawldeep crimson. At supper, he drew it from hiding and draped it over her shoulders. She sat there, radiant, running her aged hands over the new wool. Twenty years younger she looked, I tell you! The heart matters. Not things for us, but us for thingsthey bring us joy. Love and kindness make us happy.” She paused. “Have you forgotten?”
Then, turning to the sister whod spoken: “And youmind that sharp tongue. Words arent to be wasted.” With that, she rose and left to rest.
The table stayed sombre. The sister muttered an apology, but the air remained thick. Conversation limped; jokes fell flat. The poison lingered.
Then the door flew openher favourite niece and her husband, bright and laughing. They kissed her cheeks, handed her roses, the husband dropping to one knee with a line from an old ballad. The niece produced a small box: a necklace of river pearls. “Where did you find such a thing?” they cried. She clasped it round her aunts neck, tugging her to the mirror, embracing her, clapping with delight.
The room came alive. Glasses chimed, toasting her health. The bitterness dissolvedreplaced by warmth, by real joy. Talk flowed, laughter rang, the food tasted sweet again.
And as she sat there, pearl-strung, elegant, the woman thought: *Seventy? A trifle. So much life aheadjust to live, just to be glad.*
So mused the woman, ageless in her finery, happy on her seventieth birthday.
