On my seventy-second birthday, my children didn’t come home— they mailed me an iPad with a preloaded “care app” instead of their arms.

I lit a single candle on a store-bought cupcake. The kitchen clock ticked loud in the silence. The box had arrived that morning, brown cardboard, neatly taped. I thought maybe flowers, or a sweater like the ones my daughter used to buy. Instead, it was a silver tablet with a note:

“Happy birthday, Mom! We set up FaceTime and CareTrack so you’ll never feel alone. Love you!”

I stared at the glossy screen until my reflection blurred. A nurse for thirty-five years, I’d held dying men’s hands, coached women through labor, even sat with strangers whose families never came. I used to tell myself, at least my children will never leave me alone like this.

The cupcake flickered. I pressed the green button on the app, the one with my son’s face smiling in a tiny square. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Voicemail. I tried my daughter in California—busy tone. My hands trembled. I laughed, though no one heard. Imagine: a lifetime of cooking dinners for six, sewing costumes, mopping up vomit at 3 a.m.—and now my birthday companions were silence and a machine that needed charging.

I blew out the candle. The smoke curled upward, disappearing into the same air that swallowed every word I wanted to say.

People tell me, “That’s just America today. Families are scattered. Everyone’s busy.” They don’t say it with cruelty, just acceptance, like loneliness is as natural as rain. But it shouldn’t be. I don’t want apps or subscriptions. I don’t need another gadget blinking at me like a babysitter. I need footsteps on the porch, real laughter bouncing off these walls, the weight of a grandchild’s head on my shoulder.

When my husband died, neighbors filled the house with casseroles, hugs, stories. They knew presence matters more than efficiency. Somehow, in our rush toward screens and schedules, we forgot that lesson.

Later that night, my son finally called back. His face filled the tablet, tired but smiling. “Happy birthday, Mom! Sorry, the market’s been insane. Did you get the iPad? Cool, right? Now we can check in every day.”

I smiled. I didn’t tell him the truth—that the iPad felt less like a gift and more like a replacement for himself.

Technology can track my pulse, deliver my groceries, even stream a hundred faces into my kitchen. But it cannot sit beside me when I cry, or kiss my forehead before I fall asleep.

If you’re reading this, remember: parents don’t need digital reminders after they’re gone. They need your hands, your voices, your time—while they are still alive.