Today, I turned 100.
I woke up before sunrise, just like I always do. The house was quiet. The world outside still asleep.
But I wasn’t alone.
On the edge of my bed sat Max — my golden retriever, my constant companion for the last ten years.
He licked my hand like he knew what day it was.
Like he understood that this moment mattered — even if no one else was here.
So I got dressed. Put on my favorite red scarf. Then walked to the kitchen and pulled out ingredients for a small vanilla cake — something simple, something sweet.
No one called.
No one sent flowers.
No one remembered.
And yet, I smiled through every candle I lit.
Because I made it here.
To 100.
With every scar, joy, loss, and memory intact.
I never had children. Never found the kind of love that lasts through decades.
My husband passed away during the war. We were young when we married. Too young to have built a family before he left.
And over time, friends faded too. Some died. Some moved away. Some forgot.
But Max didn’t.
He’s been beside me through hospital visits, late-night fears, and more than one heartbreak.
And today, as I sat at the table with my cake and him curled under my chair, I realized something:
I am not lonely.
I may be the only one celebrating my life — but I’m not living it without love.
Because sometimes, the people who leave… don’t come back.
But the ones who stay — four legs, wagging tail, and all — show up in the only way that matters.
With loyalty.
With affection.
With presence.
So I blew out the candles.
Ate two slices of cake.
Then took Max for a long walk down memory lane.
And as we watched the sun set together, I whispered:
“Thank you for being here.”
“Even when no one else was.”
Because turning 100 doesn’t mean much if you don’t get to feel seen .
And today, someone did.
Even if he couldn’t speak — his eyes said everything.