**A Lonely Birthday**
“Mum, honestly, what are you fussing about now?” snapped Emily, not even looking up from her phone. “So what if they didn’t come for your birthday? People have their own lives.”
“What lives?” murmured Margaret, twisting a napkin in her hands. “Lucy promised to bring the kids, James said he’d make time, and Michael even told me he’d already bought my present.”
“So?” Emily finally glanced up. “Lucy’s kids are ill, James is swamped at work, and Michael’s stuck on a business trip in Manchester. No one’s doing it on purpose.”
Margaret silently set the table in the sitting room—her best china, the lace tablecloth reserved for special occasions. Seventy years—wasn’t that special enough? She’d spent all week shopping and all morning cooking their favourites: shepherd’s pie for James, roast chicken for Lucy, a Victoria sponge for Michael.
“Em, maybe we could call them again?” she asked. “Perhaps they could still—”
“Mum, enough!” Emily pushed back her chair. “I’ve got to go. Tom’s been alone with the kids all day—he’ll be exhausted.”
“But we haven’t even had dinner properly…”
“What’s there to eat? Just a few little salads. I’ll have a proper meal at home.”
Margaret watched as her youngest daughter grabbed her bag and hurried out as if afraid of missing something far more important than her mother’s birthday. A quick peck on the cheek, the door slamming—and suddenly the table set for six felt cavernously empty.
She sat for a long time, staring at the untouched plates. The flat was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock—the one her late husband had given her on their tenth anniversary. How many celebrations had it witnessed? Christmases, graduations, weddings…
Margaret packed the leftovers into Tupperware—she’d take the shepherd’s pie to Mrs. Thompson next door tomorrow—and stored the cake in the fridge, slicing it into far more portions than she’d need.
Later, curled in her husband’s old armchair, she checked her phone. Unread messages glowed on the screen:
“Happy birthday, Mum! So sorry I couldn’t make it—the kids are poorly, high fevers. I’ll pop round this weekend. Love you! xx” —Lucy.
“Mum, happy birthday. Work’s a nightmare—might get sacked. Gift’s with Emily. Take care.” —James, ever succinct.
“Mum, happy 70th! Stuck in Manchester—flight cancelled. Will make it up to you! Love you loads.” —Michael, her baby.
They all loved her. They’d all come… eventually.
The next morning, Mrs. Thompson knocked with a bouquet of roses. “Happy belated, love! Sorry I missed it—grandson had football finals.”
Margaret put the kettle on. “How was your celebration?” Mrs. Thompson asked. “Did the kids come?”
Margaret stirred her tea silently.
“Oh,” Mrs. Thompson sighed. “Margaret, have you told them how much it mattered?”
“What’s the point? They’re grown—they should know.”
Mrs. Thompson shook her head. “Should doesn’t mean do. Mine are the same. Won’t click till you spell it out.”
As they ate cake, Mrs. Thompson chatted about her grandchildren. Margaret realized it was easier to talk to her neighbor than to her own children.
“Join me at the community center?” Mrs. Thompson suggested. “They’ve got knitting, watercolour classes…”
Margaret hesitated. “I’ve never lived for myself.”
“Why not start?”
That evening, Lucy called: “Mum, can you watch the kids tomorrow? I’ve a doctor’s appointment.”
Margaret almost said no—Sunday was her day too—but the exhaustion in Lucy’s voice made her agree.
At home, James surprised her with gifts: a teapot, chocolates, a new dressing gown.
“Do you need me?” she asked bluntly.
“Of course!” he spluttered. “You’re our mum!”
“But *how*? As a babysitter? A cook?”
When she mentioned wanting to travel, James gaped. “But what about the kids?”
“*Their* kids,” Margaret corrected.
Later, Emily called, uneasy after James’s warning: “Mum, are you upset with us?”
“I’m tired of being an afterthought.”
The next day, Margaret visited the community center. At the art class, she met Dorothy, another grandmother whose children only called when they needed something.
“They think a roof and meals mean we’re content,” Dorothy muttered over tea. “Never ask what *we* dream about.”
Margaret’s first painting—a clumsy seascape—filled her with strange pride.
When Michael rang to ask if they could stay during renovations, she refused. “Come for Sunday lunch. Find a hotel.”
A week later, all four gathered in her kitchen, bewildered. “You’ve changed,” Lucy said.
“I have,” Margaret agreed. “I won’t be taken for granted anymore.”
They protested—*We love you!*—but their panic confirmed her point. She wasn’t their mother anymore; she was a convenience.
The next morning, Margaret booked a train ticket to Brighton—her first solo holiday. For the first time in decades, she wasn’t afraid.
