For my sixtieth birthday, I prepared with heart and nerves. A week before, I began stocking up on groceries, planning the menu, dreaming of spending the day surrounded by those closest to me. I longed for warmth, family comfort, genuine smiles. I live with my youngest daughter—Emily, now thirty, still unmarried. Then there’s my eldest, William, forty, long since wed, with a daughter of his own.
I wanted us all at one table—Emily, William, his wife Charlotte, and my granddaughter Lily. I organised everything, cooked their favourites: shepherd’s pie, roast beef, a spread of salads, baked treats, and of course, the cake. I told them all weeks in advance—Saturday, so no one could claim other plans.
But Saturday came, and no one did.
I called William—no answer. The closer it got to evening, the heavier my heart grew. Silence instead of laughter, tears instead of toasts. I couldn’t even sit at the table, couldn’t bear the emptiness. The flat smelled of rosemary and gravy—yet felt treacherously cold. By nightfall, I sobbed like a child. Emily tried to comfort me, but I was beyond reach.
Next morning, I snapped. Packed leftovers into a bag and went to William’s. Maybe something had happened. Maybe there was a reason.
Charlotte answered, bleary-eyed in a dressing gown. No smile. “What are you doing here?”
My stomach dropped. I stepped inside. William was just waking. He offered tea, and I swallowed my hurt. “Why didn’t you come? No call, no text—nothing?”
He looked away. But Charlotte spoke, voice thick with something long festering: “We didn’t want to. No mood for parties. We’ve got problems. A one-bed flat you ‘generously’ gave us, while you kept the three-bed. No space for another child, even. You handed us scraps and kept the feast for yourself.”
I froze. Surely I’d misheard.
I remembered us three in that three-bed—me, William, Emily. My husband vanished abroad years ago—no letters, no calls. I raised them alone. My parents helped buy my current flat. For seven years, I squeezed into that cramped space so William and Charlotte could have their own. They took one room, Emily the other, while I slept in the passage. When Lily was born, I cared for her, rocked her through nights. Even when my mother-in-law died, leaving me a dingy studio, I renovated it and gave it to William—so they could finally have independence.
And now, years later, my sacrifice wasn’t enough.
I’d kept the “better” half, apparently. Made them miserable. Been at fault.
I rode home with a lump in my throat. As if my life’s work—sleepless nights, self-denial—meant nothing. People don’t just forget kindness. They start believing they’re owed it.
I gave my best years to them. Worked weekends, abandoned any life of my own. And for what? Not even politeness brought them to my birthday. No call, no apology. Too busy resenting me—for the “wrong” flat.
The pain isn’t from sitting alone that day. It’s from loving them more than myself—and it still not being enough. They didn’t want a flat. They wanted everything.
That day taught me this: stop expecting gratitude. Put yourself first. And never sacrifice for those who won’t even say thanks.
