“Cheers, son, for this wonderful celebration!” said the mother-in-law into the microphone, completely ignoring me! My toast in response left the entire room in stunned silence.
You know how it goes. The mother-in-laws 60th birthday was loominga proper milestone, demanding a lavish affair. And who, in our family, was the chief organiser, the driving force, the so-called “eternal engine”? Thats rightme.
Mabel Thompsonmy dear mother-in-lawapproached me with her most innocent expression: “Darling, youre such a gem, so capable!” Then came the inevitable: “Help me with the party, wont you? Im just an old woman now, completely out of touch.”
“Help,” she said. Ladies, her idea of “helping” meant I ended up doing absolutely everything. For two solid weeks, my life revolved around this blasted birthday.
I scouted venues, revised the menu three times because “Aunt Margery wont touch fish, and Uncle Geoffs allergic to nuts.” I booked the entertainer, arranged the photographer, designed the decorations, and spent half the night inflating those ridiculous balloons.
And the cherry on top? The entire shindig was paid for with *our* moneyMabel certainly wasnt footing the bill.
My husband, James, mastered the illusion of participationtagging along, sitting beside me, yet never looking up from his phone. To every one of my suggestions, hed nod gravely without lifting his eyes. “Brilliant idea, love.”
Meanwhile, Mabel phoned daily with her unsolicited “advice,” never once asking if *I* needed help. By the time the day arrived, Id lost half a stone from sheer stress.
The venue gleamed, guests arrived in their finest, and the birthday queen herselfdecked out in a new dressheld court. I, meanwhile, hadnt even managed a proper hairstyle.
I raced around like a headless chickensorting issues with the waitstaff, rescuing lost children, soothing Uncle Geoff after one too many whiskeys. Not a guest, but an unpaid event coordinator.
Finally, I collapsed into a chair, eyeing the prawn cocktail with longing. Then the entertainer announced: “And now, a few words from our guest of honour!”
Mabel took the mic, regal as ever. Foolishly, I thought, *Surely shell thank me now*.
“My dearest friends!” she trilled, sweeping the room with a queenly gaze. “Im *so* touched youve all come! And I must thank my darling, my *golden boy*James! Sweetheart, none of this wouldve happened without you! Youve made your mum so proud!”
My fork clattered to the plate. The room erupted in applause. Jamesflushed with prideblew her a kiss. Not a *word* about me. As if Id never existed.
Right then, something inside me snapped. The hurt was so sharp, I nearly forgot to breathe. Then came the ice-cold fury. And a planbold and brutal.
I waited. As the clapping faded, I strode to the entertainer.
“Excuse me,” I said sweetly. “Id like to say a few words.”
Clueless, he handed me the mic.
I stepped forward, cleared my throat, andprojecting to the backsaid:
“Ladies and gentlemen! Mabel! I couldnt agree moreJames *is* a hero!” I rummaged in my bag. “So, in honour of his *stellar* efforts, Ive a gift for them both.”
I pulled out the folderthe restaurants final invoice, fresh from the manager.
The room froze. I set it before them, dead-eyed.
“Since this was *your* achievement,” I said, crisp as frost, “its only fair you settle the bill. After alltrue heroes see things through, dont they?”
The silence was *glorious*. James gripped the tablecloth, white-knuckled. Mabel gaped like a landed trout.
Not a whisper as I set the mic down, grabbed my coat, and walked outchin up. Rumor has it the party ended rather abruptly after that.
