“The Surprise Isn’t for You”
“Mum, don’t tell me you forgot!” shrieked Emily, storming into the hall and tossing her designer handbag onto the sofa. “Mum! I reminded you a month ago!”
Margaret turned slowly from the mirror where she had been adjusting her silver hair. Her hands trembled slightly, but her gaze remained steady.
“What are you talking about, love?” she asked softly.
“What do you mean, ‘what’?!” Emily flung her coat over the armchair. “Tom’s birthday! Tomorrow’s his fifteenth! And you’re just standing there like it’s nothing?”
“No, I remember…” Margaret sank into her armchair, folding her hands in her lap. “I just thought maybe we shouldn’t make such a fuss…”
“A fuss?” Emily froze, staring at her mother. “He’s my son. Your grandson. Fifteen years old! And you’re saying we shouldn’t celebrate?”
Margaret sighed. She knew what was coming. It was always like this when Emily visited with Tom for the weekend. Her daughter had always been fiery, demanding—and since the divorce, it had only gotten worse.
“Emily, calm down. I remember. I’ve got a gift, I’ve ordered the cake from the bakery,” she said wearily. “But I was thinking… maybe he doesn’t want a big party? He’s been so quiet lately…”
“Quiet?” Emily scoffed. “He’s a teenager! They’re all quiet around adults. That doesn’t mean we skip his birthday! If anything, we should show him he’s loved!”
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Tom appeared—lanky, tousle-haired, his father’s serious eyes darting between them.
“Hey, Nan,” he muttered, then glanced at his mum. “Why’s everyone shouting?”
“We’re not shouting, we’re discussing your birthday,” Emily immediately softened, her voice sickly sweet. “Tomorrow’s your big day, darling! Nan’s got a cake, I’ve brought presents—”
“Don’t need anything,” Tom mumbled, slumping onto the sofa. “Just leave it.”
“Leave it?!” Emily gaped. “Fifteen is a milestone!”
Tom shrugged and buried himself in his phone. Margaret watched him with unease. Something was wrong. For months, he’d grown more withdrawn, barely speaking—especially to his mother.
“Tom, love,” Margaret began gently, “what would you like for your gift?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Emily perched beside him. “What about a new phone? Or we could upgrade your laptop?”
“Mum, just drop it,” he snapped, standing abruptly. “I’m going upstairs.”
“Upstairs?!” Emily jumped up. “We’ve only just arrived! Let’s plan who to invite—”
“No one!” Tom whipped around, eyes blazing. “Got it? No one. I just want to be alone.”
“Why?” Emily faltered. “You used to love parties…”
“Used to,” Tom laughed bitterly. “Yeah, well, a lot’s changed, hasn’t it? And I’m sick of pretending these things matter.”
The slam of his bedroom door echoed through the house. Emily stood frozen, disbelief written across her face.
“What’s wrong with him?” she whispered, turning to Margaret. “He was never like this before!”
Margaret exhaled heavily. She’d seen the toll the divorce had taken on Tom—how he’d been crushed between his parents’ bitterness, their endless jabs disguised as concern.
“Sit down, love,” she murmured. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” Emily paced, fingers knotting in her hair. “It’s obvious! James is poisoning him against me. I know how he twists things!”
“This isn’t about James,” Margaret said carefully. “Tom’s exhausted. From the arguing, the back-and-forth…”
“What arguing?!” Emily snapped. “We divorced amicably!”
“Amicably?” Margaret shook her head. “Emily, I hear you on the phone with his father. The barbs, the custody battles disguised as small talk…”
“I’m fighting for my son!”
“And so is he. And Tom’s stuck in the middle.” Margaret rose, reaching for her daughter. “Emily, love, maybe think about what he needs—not what you want?”
“I am thinking of him!” Emily jerked away. “That’s why I want this party! To show him he’s loved!”
“Or maybe,” Margaret said softly, “he needs peace. Stability. A home where he doesn’t have to pretend everything’s fine.”
Emily turned to the window. Rain streaked the glass, the garden beyond grey and sodden.
“You’re taking his side,” she whispered. “Just like everyone else.”
“I’m on Tom’s side. And yours. But sometimes what we think is right… isn’t what they need.”
“Meaning?”
Margaret sank back into her chair, weighing her words.
“When you were little, I pushed piano lessons because I thought it was ‘proper.’ Made you join ballet when you wanted football. I was so sure I knew best.”
“And?” Emily tensed.
“You spent your teens doing the exact opposite. Not because you hated music—but because I never asked what you wanted.”
“This isn’t the same!”
“Isn’t it?” Margaret’s smile was sad. “Tom’s telling you, clearly, he doesn’t want a party. And you’re not listening.”
“He’s a child! They don’t always know what’s best!”
“Do we?” Margaret sighed. “Emily, I’m seventy-two. And if I’ve learned anything, it’s that children usually know exactly what they need. We just don’t want to hear it.”
Emily slumped onto the armrest, shoulders sagging.
“Mum… I’m so scared of losing him,” she admitted hoarsely. “Since the divorce, it’s like there’s a wall between us. I thought a party would… fix it.”
“He knows you love him,” Margaret squeezed her hand. “But right now, he needs stillness. Not forced smiles.”
“So we do nothing?”
“Ask him. Truly ask. Then listen.”
Emily chewed her lip. Rain drummed harder against the windows.
“…Alright,” she relented. “But what if he says nothing?”
“Then we’re just there. Sometimes that’s enough.”
Another creak. Tom lingered in the doorway, shifting awkwardly.
“…Can I come in?”
“Of course, love,” Margaret smiled.
Tom sank onto the sofa, picking at a loose thread on the cushion.
“Sorry I shouted,” he muttered. “Just… everything’s rubbish lately.”
“What’s rubbish?” Emily asked gently.
Tom exhaled sharply. “You and Dad. Always asking if I’m ‘okay,’ if the other’s ‘badmouthing’ you. But then you can’t even talk without sniping.”
“We’re trying—”
“Trying?” Tom’s laugh was hollow. “Mum, I’m not stupid. I see your face when he calls. How tense Dad gets when he picks me up. D’you think that’s easy?”
Emily flinched. She’d never considered he noticed.
“Tom, sweetheart, we divorced cleanly—”
“Cleanly?” His voice cracked. “You spend an hour after his calls muttering about what a ‘selfish prat’ he is. He tells me you’re ‘unstable.’ That’s clean?”
“Tom, I—” Words failed her.
“And now this birthday,” he continued, voice thick. “You’ll smile, give gifts, cut the cake. But it’s all fake. Because you can’t stand each other—you just pity me.”
“We don’t pity you!” Emily choked. “We love you!”
“Then why can’t you act like it?” Tom’s fists clenched. “Why do I have to choose who to love more? Dad asks if I miss him when I’m with you.
