For my sixtieth birthday, I poured my heart into the preparations. A week before the big day, I began stocking up on groceries, planning the menu, dreaming of celebrating surrounded by my closest family. I longed for warmth, togetherness, and genuine smiles. I live with my younger daughter, Emily—she’s thirty but hasn’t married yet. My elder son, James, is forty, married with a daughter, Sophie.
I imagined us all gathered around the table—Emily, James, his wife Charlotte, and little Sophie. I cooked all their favourite dishes: shepherd’s pie, roast beef, salads, fresh bread, and of course, a birthday cake. I’d told everyone weeks in advance—Saturday was the day, no excuses.
But Saturday came and went, and no one arrived.
I called James—he didn’t answer. As evening fell, my heart grew heavier. Instead of laughter and chatter, there was silence. Instead of toasts, there were tears. I couldn’t even sit at the table, couldn’t bear the emptiness. The flat smelled of food I’d spent hours preparing, yet it felt bitterly cold. That night, I sobbed like a child. Emily tried to comfort me, but I was inconsolable.
The next morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I packed leftovers into a bag and went to James’s flat, thinking—maybe something had happened. Maybe there was a reason.
Charlotte answered the door, bleary-eyed in her dressing gown. “What are you doing here?” she asked flatly.
My stomach twisted. I stepped inside. James was still waking up. He offered tea, and I swallowed my hurt. “Why didn’t you come yesterday? Why ignore my calls?”
James looked away, silent. But Charlotte spoke up, her tone sharp, as if she’d been waiting to say this for years. “We didn’t want to come. We’ve got our own problems. You gave us this—this tiny one-bed flat like some grand favour, while you kept the three-bed for yourself. We barely have space—we can’t even think of having another child. You handed us scraps and kept the best.”
I froze. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
I remembered raising James and Emily in that three-bed flat after their father left—no calls, no letters. I worked double shifts, barely slept. When my parents helped me buy that flat, it felt like a lifeline. For years, we squeezed together—James and Charlotte in one room, Emily in another, me sleeping in the lounge. When Sophie was born, I looked after her every chance I got. And when my mother-in-law passed, leaving me her dingy little flat, I renovated it myself and gave it to James—so they could finally have their own place.
Now, after all that, my sacrifice wasn’t enough.
I was the villain. I’d kept the “better” flat. They were unhappy. It was my fault.
I went home with a lump in my throat. It felt like my entire life—the sleepless nights, the sacrifices—meant nothing. People don’t just forget kindness. They start believing they’re owed it.
I gave my best years to my children. Worked every holiday, gave up my own happiness. And for what? Not even a phone call on my birthday. No apology. They were too wrapped up in resentment—over a flat that wasn’t “good enough.”
The hardest part wasn’t being alone on that day. It was realising I’d loved them more than I’d ever loved myself, and still, it wasn’t enough. They didn’t just want the flat—they wanted everything.
That day taught me something vital: stop waiting for gratitude. Put yourself first for once. And never sacrifice your own happiness for those who won’t even notice.
