Dorothy moved quietly through her warm, familiar kitchen, the soft shuffle of her slippers against the worn wooden floor the only sound as she prepared dinner and a homemade birthday cake. It was her birthday—a day she had once imagined filled with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and her children, Miley and Ryan, gathered close. As she set the table with care and gently smoothed frosting over the cake, a tender hope flickered beneath the stillness that had defined recent years.
Pausing to adjust her glasses, Dorothy glanced at the calendar on the fridge. A bright red circle marked today’s date—her quiet reminder of a day that still held meaning. The kitchen came alive with the comforting rhythm of cooking: the steady chop of vegetables, the hiss of a hot pan, the low simmer of soup. For a moment, the sounds brought her back to the joyful chaos of years past, when her home was filled with her children’s voices.
As she arranged each dish, memories surfaced—sunny lakeside picnics, shared laughter, and the warmth of family. She lingered over an old photograph, its edges worn by time. It showed a younger Dorothy with Miley and Ryan, smiling brightly beside a calm lake. One face, once part of the frame, was missing—a gap left behind by years of unanswered questions. That absence, long unspoken, still stirred something within her.
When dusk arrived, she lit a few candles and placed her best dishes on the table, their soft glow adding warmth to the quiet room. She waited, her heart both hopeful and hesitant, watching the clock. As time slipped by with no sign of her children, Dorothy dialed their numbers. Both calls went unanswered.
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