For my sixtieth birthday, I prepared with excitement and care. A week before, I began shopping for groceries, planning the menu, dreaming of spending the day surrounded by those I loved most. I longed for warmth, family comfort, and genuine smiles. I live with my youngest daughter, Emily—she’s thirty but has never married. Then there’s my eldest, William, forty, who’s been married for years and has a little girl.
I wanted everyone together at one table—Emily, William, his wife Olivia, and my granddaughter Amelia. I prepared their favourite dishes: shepherd’s pie, roast beef, salads, fresh bread, and of course, a celebration cake. I told them all weeks in advance—Saturday, no excuses.
But Saturday came, and no one arrived.
I called William—no answer. As evening fell, the silence grew heavier. No laughter, no toasts, just tears. The flat smelled of home-cooked meals, yet it felt hollow. By nightfall, I sobbed like a child. Emily tried to comfort me, but I was shattered.
The next morning, I couldn’t take it. I woke early, packed leftovers into a bag, and went to my son. What if something had happened?
Olivia opened the door, bleary-eyed in a dressing gown, sounding anything but pleased.
*”Why are you here?”*
My stomach dropped. I stepped inside. William was just waking. He offered tea, and through clenched pride, I asked:
*”Why didn’t you come? Why ignore my calls?”*
He looked away. Olivia answered instead—sharp, as if she’d been waiting.
*”We didn’t *want* to come. We’re struggling. You gave us that tiny flat like some grand gift. While you kept the three-bedder. We can’t even think of another child—there’s no space. You handed us scraps.”*
I froze. Had I heard right?
I remembered raising them in that three-bedroom. Me, William, Emily. My husband left for work abroad one day—gone, no calls, no letters. I raised them alone. My parents helped buy that flat. For seven years, I squeezed into corners so they’d have room. William and Olivia took one bedroom, Emily another, while I slept in the box room. When Amelia was born, I cared for her, rocked her to sleep. When my mother-in-law died, leaving me a crumbling studio, I renovated it—gave it to them. *For their freedom.*
Yet now, I learned my sacrifice hadn’t been enough.
That I’d *kept the better place*. That they resented me.
I rode home with a knot in my throat. As if my life—sleepless nights, endless work—meant nothing. Some don’t just forget kindness. They decide they were owed more.
I gave my best years to them. Worked every shift, abandoned my own happiness. And what did it earn me? Not even a polite appearance on my birthday. No call. No apology. Just resentment—over *square footage*.
The pain wasn’t from sitting alone that day. It was realising I’d loved them more than myself. And for them, it wasn’t enough. They didn’t want a flat.
They wanted everything.
That day taught me this: stop waiting for gratitude. Put yourself first. And never sacrifice for those who won’t cherish it.
