**Diary Entry**
Preparing for my sixtieth birthday, I poured my heart into every detail. A week before, I stocked up on groceries, planned the menu, and imagined the warmth of having my closest family around me. I longed for laughter, cosy chatter, and shared memories. I live with my younger daughter—Emily, who’s thirty and still single. Then there’s my eldest, James, forty and married with a daughter of his own.
I wanted them all there—Emily, James, his wife Charlotte, and my granddaughter Lily. I cooked their favourites: shepherd’s pie, roast beef, salads, homemade cakes, and of course, a proper birthday pudding. I made sure everyone knew it was on Saturday, so no one could claim other plans.
But Saturday came and went, and no one showed.
I called James—no answer. The later it got, the heavier my heart felt. Instead of stories and toasts, there was silence. Instead of warmth, a hollow chill. The flat smelled of good food, but the air was thick with betrayal. By evening, I sobbed like a child. Emily tried to comfort me, but I was beyond consolation.
The next morning, I couldn’t stand it. I packed leftovers and went to James’s place, thinking—hoping—some emergency had kept them away.
Charlotte answered, bleary-eyed and wrapped in a dressing gown. “What are you doing here?” she asked flatly.
Something inside me snapped. I stepped in. James, still groggy, offered tea. Swallowing my hurt, I asked, “Why didn’t you come? Why ignore my calls?”
James looked away, silent. But Charlotte spoke—her words sharp, as if she’d been waiting years to say them. “We didn’t want to come. We’re not in the mood for celebrations. We’ve got problems. Like the *one-bed* flat you *so generously* gave us while you kept the three-bed for yourself. We can’t even think of a second child—there’s no space. You handed us your leftovers and kept the best for yourself.”
I stood frozen, as though I’d misheard.
I remembered raising them in that three-bed—me, James, Emily. My husband had left years ago, vanished abroad without so much as a letter. I’d done it all alone. My parents helped me buy the flat I live in now. I endured cramped living for *seven years*—James and Charlotte took one room, Emily the other, while I slept in the makeshift space by the kitchen. When Lily was born, I cared for her every chance I could. Even when my mother-in-law passed and left me a tiny, run-down flat, I renovated it and gave it to James—so they could finally have their own place.
And now, years later, I learn my sacrifice wasn’t enough.
That I’d “kept the best for myself.” That they’re miserable. That *I’m* to blame.
I went home with a lump in my throat. All those sleepless nights, the years of putting them first—meant nothing. People don’t just forget kindness. They start believing they’re *owed* it.
I gave them my best years—worked weekends, gave up my own happiness. And what did it earn me? Not even a courtesy call on my birthday. No apology. Just resentment over “the wrong flat.”
The worst part isn’t being alone on a day that mattered. It’s realising I loved them more than I ever loved myself—and for them, it still wasn’t enough. They didn’t want the flat. They wanted *everything*.
That day taught me something: stop expecting gratitude. Put myself first. And never sacrifice for those who’d never do the same for me.
