“The Surprise Won’t Be for Me”
“Mum, don’t tell me you forgot!” shrieked Emily, bursting into the hallway and shrugging off her designer handbag. “Honestly, Mum! I reminded you a month ago!”
Margaret slowly turned from the mirror where she’d been adjusting her silver hair. Her hands trembled slightly, but her eyes remained calm.
“What are you on about, love?” she asked quietly.
“What do you mean, ‘what’?” Emily flung her bag onto the sofa. “Oliver’s birthday! Tomorrow’s his fifteenth! And you’re just standing there lost in thought?”
“No, I remember…” Margaret sank into her armchair, folding her hands in her lap. “I was only thinking, perhaps we shouldn’t make a fuss…”
“Not make a fuss?” Emily froze mid-step, glaring at her mother. “He’s my son! Your grandson! Fifteen years old! And you say we shouldn’t celebrate?”
Margaret sighed. She knew what was coming—the same old argument whenever Emily visited for the weekend with Oliver. Her daughter had always been fiery, demanding. Since the divorce, she’d only gotten worse.
“Emily, calm down. Of course I remember. I’ve bought a gift and ordered the cake from the bakery,” she said wearily. “But I wondered if he might not want a big celebration. He’s been so quiet lately…”
“Quiet?” Emily scoffed. “He’s a teenager! They’re all quiet around adults. That doesn’t mean we ignore his birthday—we should show him he’s loved!”
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Oliver appeared—tall, lanky, with unruly dark hair and his father’s solemn eyes.
“Hi, Gran,” he muttered, glancing at his mother. “What’s all the shouting?”
“We’re just planning your birthday,” Emily said, her voice suddenly sickly sweet. “It’s tomorrow, darling! Gran’s ordered a cake, and I’ve brought presents…”
“Don’t need anything,” Oliver mumbled, perching on the edge of the sofa. “Can just skip it.”
“Skip it?” Emily gasped. “Fifteen is a milestone!”
Oliver shrugged and buried himself in his phone. Margaret watched him with concern. Something wasn’t right. For months, he’d grown more withdrawn, barely speaking to her, answering his mother in monosyllables.
“Oliver, love,” she ventured softly, “what would you like for your gift?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Emily sat beside him. “A new phone? Or we could upgrade your laptop?”
“Mum, drop it,” he grunted, standing. “I’m going to my room.”
“Where? We’ve only just arrived! Let’s make plans—who to invite—”
“No one!” Oliver whirled around. “Got it? No one! I just want to be left alone!”
“But why?” Emily looked bewildered. “You’ve always loved birthdays…”
“Yeah, well, things change.” His smirk was bitter. “Stop pretending any of us actually care about these stupid parties.”
He stalked off, slamming the door. Emily stood frozen, mouth agape.
“What’s got into him?” She turned to Margaret. “He used to be so cheerful!”
Margaret exhaled heavily. She’d watched her grandson change—watched him ache from the divorce, torn between his parents, exhausted by their barbs and blame.
“Sit down,” she urged. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” Emily paced. “It’s obvious—James is poisoning him against me!”
“This isn’t about James,” Margaret said carefully. “Oliver’s weary. Of your fights, the back-and-forth…”
“What fights? We divorced amicably!”
“Amicably?” Margaret shook her head. “Emily, I hear you on the phone with his father. The sniping, the scheduling battles…”
“I’m fighting for my son!”
“And so is James. And Oliver feels torn. He needs peace, not parties.”
Emily turned to the window. Rain pattered against the glass, the garden grey and bleak.
“You’re taking his side,” she whispered. “Like everyone else.”
“I’m on *his* side. And yours. But sometimes what we think is right… isn’t what’s needed.”
“What do you mean?”
Margaret sank back into her chair, choosing her words.
“When you were little, I thought I knew best. Made you take piano when you wanted to paint. Ballet when you fancied football. I thought I was preparing you for life.”
“And?” Emily frowned.
“And now you do the opposite—sometimes just to spite me. Because I never listened.”
“What’s that got to do with Oliver?”
“Everything. He’s told you what he wants. You’re not hearing him.”
“He’s a child! They don’t always know what’s best!”
“Do we?” Margaret smiled sadly. “I’m seventy-two, love. Children often know exactly what they need. We just don’t like the answer.”
Emily perched on the arm of her mother’s chair.
“I’m terrified of losing him,” she admitted. “Since the divorce, he’s like a stranger. I thought a party would show him I care.”
“He already knows,” Margaret said, patting her hand. “Right now, he needs calm. Stability. Not forced smiles.”
“So… we do nothing?”
“Ask him. Truly ask. Then do exactly as he says.”
The rain drummed harder. Finally, Emily nodded.
“Alright. But what if he says ‘nothing’?”
“Then we’re simply there. Sometimes that’s enough.”
Another creak. Oliver hovered in the doorway.
“Can I come in?”
“Of course, love,” Margaret said.
He sat opposite, fingers picking at a cushion.
“Sorry I shouted,” he muttered. “Just… tired of it all.”
“Tired of what?” Emily asked gently.
“You and Dad.” He waved a hand. “You both ask if I’m okay, if anyone’s bullying me… but you can’t even talk to each other without snipping.”
“We try—”
“Try?” Oliver looked up. “Mum, I’m not stupid. You seethe when he calls. He mutters about you when I’m with him. D’you think that’s easy?”
Emily faltered. She’d never considered how much he noticed.
“We divorced cleanly—”
“Cleanly?” He laughed bitterly. “You spend an hour cursing him after every call. He says you’re unstable. That’s ‘clean’?”
“Oliver, I—”
“Now you want a party. Fake smiles, presents, cake. Like we’re some happy family.”
“We love you!”
“Then why can’t you just *talk*? Why do I have to choose?”
He stood, then sat again, covering his face.
“Know what I dream about?” he said hoarsely. “You both stopping. Just… being civil. So I can see Dad without feeling guilty. See you without hurting him.”
Emily knelt before him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what? That I have feelings too?”
“I thought I was protecting you.”
“From *Dad*?” Oliver shook his head. “I love him. And you. Why can’t I love you both?”
“You can,” Margaret said softly. “You should. Emily?”
Emily nodded, eyes downcast.
“I hear him. But how do we fix this?”
“Start small,” Oliver said. “Tomorrow. If we *must* celebrate… invite Dad.”
“What?” Emily stiffened. “But we—”
“Divorced, I know. But you’re still my parents. If it’s *my* day… I want you both there.”
“Oliver, I—”
“Please, Mum. Call him. Say it’s important to me.”
She looked to Margaret, who nodded.
“…Alright,” Emily conceded.
Oliver’s smile—first all evening—lit the room.
“Then we’ll celebrate. But small. Just us four.”
“Four?”
“You, me, Dad, Gran. We’re still family.”
Emily’s eyes prickled. Despite everything, he still saw them that way.
“Promise me,” Oliver said firmly. “No barbs. No fights. One day. For me.”
“I promise,” Emily said quickly.
“Talk to Dad. Tell him what I need.”
“I will.”
“Then tomorrow’s surprise won’t be just for me,” Oliver said. “It’ll be for all of us.”
Margaret watched him, marveling at his quiet wisdom. How had she missed his pain?
“Oliver, love,” she asked, “what do you truly want for your gift?”
“You happy,” he said simply. “All of you. Together or apart. No pretending.”
“That’s a tall order,” Margaret mused.
“I’ll wait. However long it takes.”
Emily hugged him.And as the last raindrops slid down the windowpane, a quiet understanding settled among them, the kind that needed no words, only the shared hope of better days to come.
