It was the old lady’s birthday. She got up early to be ready for the post. From the second floor flat she could see the postman when he came down the street, a little boy, Johnnie, ¡¡1¡¡her letters from the ground floor on the rare¡¡2¡¡when anything came. Today she was sure there would be something. Myra¡¡3¡¡forget her mother’s birthday, even if she¡¡4¡¡wrote at other times. Of course Myra was busy, but¡¡5¡¡, Enid, the daughter the old lady loved most, died two years ago. Since then Myra had seen her mother three times, but her husband, Harold, never.