**Diary Entry – 25th May**
Preparing for my sixtieth birthday, I poured my heart into every detail. A week before, I began stocking up on groceries, planning the menu, imagining the warmth of having all my closest gathered around me. I longed for laughter, for that familiar comfort only family brings. I live with my younger daughter, Emily—thirty, still unmarried. Then there’s my eldest, James, forty, married with a daughter of his own.
I dreamed of us all together—Emily, James, his wife Sophie, and my granddaughter Lily. I cooked their favourites: shepherd’s pie, roast beef, a spread of salads, fresh bread, and of course, a proper Victoria sponge. I made sure everyone knew—Saturday, no excuses.
But Saturday came, and no one did.
I called James—no answer. By evening, the silence was unbearable. No chatter, no clinking glasses, just the hollow ache of disappointment. The flat was filled with the smell of good food, yet it felt colder than ever. I broke down sobbing, like a child. Emily tried to comfort me, but the hurt ran too deep.
The next morning, I couldn’t shake it. I packed leftovers and went to James’s place, clinging to some foolish hope—maybe there’d been an emergency.
Sophie opened the door, bleary-eyed in her dressing gown, and frowned. “What are you doing here?”
My chest tightened. Inside, James was just waking up. He offered tea, and I swallowed my pride. “Why didn’t you come yesterday? Why ignore my calls?”
James looked away, but Sophie didn’t hesitate. “We didn’t want to come. We’ve got enough on our plates. That cramped little flat you ‘generously’ gave us? While you kept the three-bedder for yourself. We can’t even think of another child—there’s no space. You handed us scraps and called it kindness.”
I froze.
Memories flashed—raising James and Emily in that three-bedroom after my husband left for abroad and vanished. No letters, no calls. Just me, stretching every penny. My parents helped buy that flat, the one I live in now. For seven years, I squeezed into the smallest room so James and Sophie could have privacy. When Lily was born, I cared for her every chance I could. Even when my mother-in-law passed and left me a dilapidated studio, I fixed it up and gave it to them—so they’d have their own place.
And now, after all that, I’m told it wasn’t enough.
That I’d kept the “better” half for myself. That their unhappiness is my fault.
I rode home with a lump in my throat, as if every sacrifice—every sleepless night, every missed opportunity—meant nothing. People don’t just forget kindness; they start believing they’re owed it.
I gave my best years to them. Worked myself ragged, put my life on hold. And for what? Not even basic decency on my birthday. No call, no apology. Just resentment over a flat that wasn’t “good enough.”
The cruelest part isn’t the loneliness. It’s realising I loved them more than I ever loved myself—and to them, it was never going to be enough. They didn’t want a home. They wanted everything.
This birthday taught me something: stop waiting for gratitude. Put myself first. And never again sacrifice for those who won’t even say thank you.
