Emily Wilson sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through photos on her phone. Forty—a milestone birthday. She wanted to celebrate properly, invite friends, colleagues, maybe even order a custom cake from the bakery. For the first time in years, she felt like making a fuss about it.
“Emily, have you lost your mind?” Margaret’s voice sliced through the quiet flat like a knife. Her mother-in-law appeared in the doorway, clutching her usual bouquet of garden flowers.
“Good afternoon, Margaret,” Emily said without looking up. “Tea’s on the stove if you’d like some.”
“Tea? Never mind that. What’s this nonsense you’ve been telling Daniel about celebrating your birthday? Forty is bad luck!”
Emily set her phone down slowly and met Margaret’s gaze. Her mother-in-law stood there in the same grey cardigan she’d worn for a decade, looking at Emily as if she’d suggested dancing naked in Trafalgar Square.
“It’s my birthday, and I’ll celebrate how I like,” Emily said evenly.
“Your rights!” Margaret threw her hands up. “No one celebrates forty—everyone knows it’s cursed. My gran used to say: mark your fortieth, and life goes downhill from there.”
Emily smirked.
“Your gran likely said a lot of things. Times change.”
“Times, times…” Margaret marched to the stove, pouring herself tea into her favourite mug—the one Emily despised because Margaret had brought it from her own house and plonked it in their cupboard without asking. “Do you know what happened to Linda next door after she turned forty last year? Lost her husband a month later.”
“Margaret,” Emily stood and moved to the window. “Linda lost her husband because he drank like a fish for twenty years. Not because she had a party.”
“You always think you know better! Always!” Margaret’s voice sharpened. “I didn’t raise my son to end up with someone so… modern.”
She spat the word like a curse.
Emily turned.
“And what’s so wrong with being modern? I work, I earn, I keep a home—”
“Keep a home?!” Margaret scoffed. “Yesterday, dust was thick on the shelves, Daniel’s shirt wasn’t ironed, and you were clattering away at your computer.”
“I was working remotely. It’s called a career.”
“Career…” Margaret sipped her tea. “And what about family? The home? Where are the grandchildren?”
That question came every visit. And Margaret visited often—nearly every day. She had a key to their flat, given to her by Daniel “just in case” during their first year of marriage. The “case” had apparently become a permanent fixture.
“Margaret, we’re trying,” Emily sat back down. “But we’re happy as we are.”
“Happy! At your age, you should be thinking ahead. Forty’s around the corner, and you’re still playing about.”
“That’s exactly why I want to celebrate. Properly, with friends, good food, a nice party.”
Margaret slammed her mug down, splashing tea across the table.
“No! I won’t allow it. I’ll talk to Daniel. He’ll put a stop to this.”
“Daniel supports me,” Emily lied—her husband had no idea how grand her plans were.
“We’ll see,” Margaret threatened, heading for the door. “We’ll see what he says.”
Alone, Emily slumped at the table and shut her eyes. Eight years. Eight years of daily visits, lectures, unsolicited advice. How to cook roast (“Daniel hates it dry”), how to iron shirts (“Start with the collar”), how to greet him after work (“A man should know he’s wanted at home”).
At first, Emily had argued gently, then firmly, then not at all. But lately, silence was harder. Especially when Margaret rearranged their flat, moved dishes, or—like last month—threw out flowers she deemed “past it” (though they’d been in full bloom).
That evening, when Daniel returned from work, Emily braced herself. He was tired, irritable, and the first thing he said after hanging his coat was:
“Mum called. Says you’ve got some mad idea about your birthday.”
“Mad idea?” Emily stirred dinner at the stove.
“This… big party at forty. She says it’s bad luck.”
“Daniel,” she turned to him. “Do you actually believe in superstitions?”
He shrugged.
“Dunno. But Mum’s not just saying it. She’s seen a lot in her time.”
“Seen a lot,” Emily repeated. “And what, I haven’t? I’m turning forty, and I want to mark it properly. Friends, colleagues, a proper spread. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, but why upset Mum? We could just have a quiet do, just us.”
“We do that every year. This time, I want something different.”
“Em,” his voice turned wheedling. “Why bother with the fuss? Guests, cooking, stress…”
“I’ll handle the cooking. And the fuss.”
“And Mum?”
“What about her?”
“She’ll be upset if we ignore her advice.”
Emily set the pan down harder than intended.
“Daniel, it’s my birthday. Mine. Not your mum’s. And I decide how to spend it.”
He stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time.
“You’re really cross with Mum?”
“I’m not cross. I’m tired.”
“Tired of what?”
“Of having no say in my own home. Of your mum acting like she owns this flat. Of every little thing I do being picked apart.”
Daniel said nothing, poking at his potatoes with a fork.
“Dan,” Emily sat across from him. “I’m not asking you to choose between us. I’m asking you to back me on my birthday. Is that so hard?”
“Fine,” he muttered at last. “Do what you want. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The next fortnight was an ordeal. Margaret visited daily, armed with fresh arguments—newspaper clippings on tradition, horror stories about people who’d celebrated forty and met misfortune.
“Emily, love,” she’d say, sipping their tea and eating their biscuits, “listen to me, like a mother. I only want what’s best. Cancel it. Go to church instead, light a candle.”
“Margaret, I’m not religious,” Emily replied patiently.
“Exactly! Then wonder why bad things happen! Godless, and throwing parties all the same.”
Emily carried on. She ordered the cake, planned the menu, sent invitations. Thirty said they’d come—colleagues, old friends, neighbours. Even her sister was coming up from Bristol.
Three days before the party, Margaret made her final stand:
“Daniel,” she said when he stopped by after work, “you must put a stop to this nonsense. Are you a man or not?”
“Mum, she’s an adult,” he said wearily.
“Adult! Forty and no sense! Look at her—spending money on nonsense, inviting half the street… Who’ll clean? Who’ll cook? She’s always at that job, never home.”
“Mum, enough.”
“I won’t stop! It’s my duty to warn you. Your wife’s not right, Daniel. I’ve said it from the start. Not one of us.”
“Mum!”
“What? I’m telling the truth. A proper woman keeps home, has babies, listens to her husband. But her… career first.”
“Mum, not this again… we’re trying, it’s not easy.”
Margaret fell silent.
On the day, Emily woke early. The flat smelled of fresh baking—she’d cooked late into the night. The cake stood proudly on the table, the fridge stocked with salads, drinks, nibbles. Everything was ready.
Daniel left for work—he’d taken only the evening off. Alone, Emily finally felt the thrill of the day. She dressed in a new frock, did her hair, put on makeup. The mirror reflected a striking forty-year-old woman who deserved happiness.
Guests arrived from five. Sarah from work brought roses; Tom and Lisa brought wine and a glossy art book Emily had wanted. The flat soon buzzed with laughter and chatter.
Emily floated between guests, accepting toasts, keeping an eye on the spread. She hadn’t felt this light in years. Her party. Her rules.
At half six, as Daniel raised his glass, the door opened. There stood Margaret in her “best” dress—the navy one she’d worn to every family do for a decade.
Conversation died. All turned to the door.
“Margaret!” Daniel lowered his drink. “You said you weren’t coming!”
“Changed my mind,” she said flatly, scanning the room. “Came to congratulate my daughter-in-law.”
Emily stood by the table, tension thickening the air. Guests exchanged glances.
“You’re welcome,” Emily said coldly. “Though you weren’t invited.”
“Weren’t invited…” Margaret echoed. “I didn’t come for an invite. I came to give a toast.”
She marched to the table, lifted a waterShe took a deep breath and walked away from the flat, knowing that whatever storm Margaret might brew next, she’d face it—not as the meek daughter-in-law, but as a woman who’d finally claimed her own life.
