For my sixtieth birthday, I prepared with trembling care. Weeks were spent agonizing over every detail—the menu, the shopping, cooking the family’s favourite dishes: stuffed cabbage rolls, roast beef, an array of salads, and, of course, a homemade Victoria sponge cake. I wanted everything perfect, dreamed of my children, grandchildren, and kin gathered around one table, celebrating this milestone with me.
I live in London with my younger daughter, Emily, thirty and still waiting for fate to send her a proper match. My eldest, William, is forty, long married to Charlotte, and they have a sweet little girl, my granddaughter Lily.
I made sure to tell them all the celebration would be on a Saturday—a day free from work, so no one could claim prior commitments. Everyone promised to come. I imagined us laughing over the feast, reminiscing about old times.
But when the day arrived, no one came.
I dialled William’s number again and again—silence. With each unanswered ring, my heart tightened. Instead of joy and cheers, I spent the evening in tears. The sight of the lavishly set table, the cake I’d decorated so meticulously, felt like a mockery. Emily stayed by my side all night, whispering comfort. Without her, I might have shattered completely.
The next morning, I couldn’t bear it. Packing up the untouched food, I went to William’s myself. One thought looped in my mind—had something terrible happened?
Charlotte answered the door, still in her dressing gown, bleary-eyed, not an ounce of warmth in her expression.
*”What are you doing here?”* she asked, no greeting, no smile.
I stepped inside. William was still asleep. When he finally shuffled into the kitchen, he barely looked at me, just filled the kettle.
I didn’t soften my words.
*”Why didn’t you come yesterday? Why wouldn’t you even pick up the phone?”*
William stayed silent. Charlotte answered for him, and her words struck like a second blow.
She claimed they’d been nursing resentment all these years—that I’d given them a cramped one-bedroom flat while keeping a spacious three-bedroom house for myself. *Not enough room*, she said. *No space for another child.*
I stood there, jaw tight, the past rushing in.
After my husband vanished, I raised the children alone. My parents helped me buy the house. I worked myself raw—school fees, clubs, illnesses, teenage rebellions. When William brought Charlotte home, I didn’t turn them out. I gave them a room, gave Emily hers, and took the box room for myself.
When Lily was born seven years later, it was me who rocked her to sleep, fed her, walked her through sleepless nights.
Then my estranged mother-in-law died and left me a decrepit studio flat in her will. I spent my savings renovating it—then gave it to William and Charlotte, thinking I was handing them freedom.
Instead, I hadn’t done *enough*.
I left without a goodbye. The Tube ride home was thick with swallowed tears. Charlotte’s words rang in my ears; my chest ached.
*How?* Why is kindness taken for granted? Why do those closest to us betray us, dismiss every sacrifice?
Now I understand.
You can’t spend your life giving, sacrificing, hoping for gratitude that never comes.
People grow used to kindness—then demand more. And when they don’t get it, they call you selfish.
That evening, I sat at the same table where the cake had sat untouched. Pouring tea, I gazed out at the quiet, rain-slicked London streets.
And suddenly—relief.
No more debts. No more proving my love. No more bleeding myself dry for silence and spite.
Now, it’s time to think of myself.
And I will.
