Alright, so here’s the story, but all dressed up in English culture—like swapping out the names, places, and little details to make it feel right at home in, say, London or Manchester.
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My son and his wife didn’t show up for my sixtieth birthday. I’d given them a flat, and now it turns out that wasn’t enough for them.
I’d spent weeks planning my big day, fussing over every little thing. I’d sorted the menu, bought all the groceries, even made all the family’s favourites—shepherd’s pie, roast beef, a proper trifle, and a homemade Victoria sponge. I wanted it perfect, with all the kids, grandkids, and everyone round the same table, celebrating together.
I live in London with my younger daughter, Emily—she’s thirty and still hasn’t settled down, bless her. My eldest, James, is forty, married to Charlotte, and they’ve got a lovely little girl, my granddaughter Lily.
I’d made sure to tell everyone the party was on a Saturday, so no one had work to worry about. Everyone promised they’d come. I imagined us all laughing, sharing stories, making memories.
But when the day came? No one turned up.
I kept ringing James—nothing. Not a peep. With every unanswered call, my heart sank deeper. Instead of cheers and happy faces, I spent the evening in tears. I couldn’t even look at the table I’d set so carefully, at the cake I’d spent hours decorating. It all felt pointless.
Emily stayed with me all night, doing her best to cheer me up. If it weren’t for her, I’d have fallen apart completely.
Next morning, I couldn’t take it. I packed up some leftovers and went straight to James’s place. All I could think was—what if something terrible had happened?
When I rang the bell, Charlotte answered. She was still in her pyjamas, barely awake, and didn’t look thrilled to see me.
“What are you doing here?” she said, no hello, nothing.
I walked in. James was still asleep. A few minutes later, he shuffled into the kitchen, grumpy, and put the kettle on without a word.
I didn’t bother with small talk.
“Why didn’t you come yesterday? Why didn’t you even pick up the phone?”
James stayed quiet. Charlotte was the one who answered. And what she said hit me like a slap.
She claimed they’d been holding this grudge for years—apparently, the one-bedroom flat I’d given them wasn’t enough, not when I still had my big three-bedroom place. Said they couldn’t even think about having another baby because there wasn’t space.
I just stood there, stunned.
Memories flashed through my head. After my husband left, I raised the kids alone. My parents helped me buy the three-bed. I worked my fingers to the bone—school fees, extracurriculars, teen dramas. When James brought Charlotte home, I didn’t kick them out. I gave them a room, Emily took another, and I squeezed into the box room.
When Lily was born seven years ago, I was the one looking after her half the time—feeding her, taking her to the park, even night feeds.
Then my mother-in-law passed. We weren’t close, but out of nowhere, she left me a run-down little one-bed. I used my savings to fix it up—then gave it to James and Charlotte, so they’d have their own place.
I thought I’d done the right thing. Thought I was giving them freedom.
Turns out, it wasn’t enough.
I walked out without saying goodbye. The trip home felt like forever, my throat tight, Charlotte’s words ringing in my ears. My chest ached.
How could this happen? Why is kindness taken for granted? How can the people closest to you turn around and throw everything you’ve done right back in your face?
Now I get it.
You can’t spend your whole life giving, sacrificing, hoping for gratitude. It might never come.
People get used to kindness and just want more. And when they don’t get it? They blame you.
That evening, I sat at the same table where, just the day before, I’d waited for guests. I poured myself a cuppa, stared out at the quiet London streets, autumn leaves drifting past.
And suddenly—I felt lighter.
I don’t owe anyone anything now.
No explanations.
No proof of love.
No more draining myself dry for silence and resentment.
It’s time to think about me.
And I will.
