Why is the phone quiet all evening? Maybe theres poor reception? Or perhaps theyve got the date muddled? They surely couldnt have just forgotten, Andrewits a big birthday, forty, not just another year, Emily turned a glass of wine in her fingers, staring at the blank screen of her mobile on the spotless white tablecloth.
Andrew, my husband, avoided my eyes and poked at his roast duck. He chewed slowly, as if hoping to delay his response. Candles flickered in the front room, gentle music drifted in the background, and there was the scent of pine and clementines in the airmy birthdays in December, just before Christmas. The table groaned under two days worth of dishes Id prepared, expectingas every yearfor Andrews family to drop in. Or at least ring.
Em, you know what Mums like, Andrew finally managed, putting down his fork. Shes probably not feeling well, you know how her blood pressure is. Or maybe lost track of time at the allotment. Well, not the allotment in this weatherforget I said that. Shes just forgotten, thats all. Age. As for Sophie shes probably got deadlines at work.
Sophie always seems to have deadlines when it comes to me, I replied with a bitter chuckle, but when she needs a babysitter or wants to borrow a tenner until payday, its suddenly easy for her to find my number.
I got up from the table and went to the window. Fat snowflakes were tumbling past the glass. I was fortyan age that makes you take stock. And my tally for the night was grim: after fifteen years of being the dependable rock, family chef, designated driver, and amateur therapist, Andrews family had clearly scratched me from their calendar.
Dont be upset, Andrew came up behind me and squeezed my shoulders. What matters is were together. And I did get you a decent present, love.
He hadhed bought the spa voucher Id wanted for ages. Andrew did love me. But he was gentlenever one to stand up to his mum, Barbara, or his bold little sister, Sophie. He always preferred to stick his head in the sand, hoping any disputes would just blow over.
Im not upset, Andrew, I said quietly, watching my own reflection in the black window. But I am drawing some conclusions.
Id been meaning to, for some time. I remembered how last year Id organised Barbaras 65th birthday. Id taken a week of unpaid leave, found a pub and haggled for a discount, worked out the table settings, baked a massive two-tier cake to save her money, and spent half the night putting together a touching film from old photos.
And what did I get in return? A curt thanks, you could have done with a bit more icing and a cheap shower gel, still with the sale sticker attached, probably snapped up in a 2-for-1 at the nearest Tesco.
And Sophie? She took my help as a given. Em, collect the kids from nursery, I wont make it, nail appointment, Em, youre clever, help me with my coursework, Em, can I borrow your dress for the work do? And I always didhelped, fetched, lent. I thought thats how family works. What goes around comes around, right?
The phone never rang. Not that night, nor the next day. Not even a tacky e-card in a WhatsApp chat, like the ones they bombard relatives with on every saints day.
A week passed in heavy silence. I was curious how long it would take for anyone to remember I existed. Exactly seven days.
The name Sophie popped up on the screen.
Hello, birthday girl! Sophies bright, breezy tone stabbed my ear. No hint of embarrassment. Look, could you do us a favour? Were thinking of nipping up to York this weekend, just for a breather. Could you take Lottie for us? She adores you, she wont pine or anything. Besides, kennels charge a fortune these days.
I stood frozen in the kitchen, hands covered in flour mid-dough.
Hi, Sophie, I said, icy calm. Isnt there something youd like to say to me? About last week?
What about last week? she sounded genuinely puzzled. Oh, your birthday! Sorry, Em! Everythings been mad, completely slipped my mind. Youre not cross, are you? Were family, after all! Happy belated birthday! Health, happiness, all that. So, Lottie? Well drop her off Friday evening.
Lottie, their enormous, untrained labrador, had chewed through my new shoes and shredded the hall wallpaper last time.
No, I said.
Sorry, what? said Sophie.
No, Im not taking Lottie.
Shock hung down the line, thick as clotted cream.
What do you mean, not take her? Sophie’s voice shot up an octave. Em, honestly! Weve booked the hotel! You always take her!
I always did, but not anymore. I have other plans. Use the kennel, its open round the clock.
Are you sulking over not getting a birthday card? she snapped. For heavens sake. Forty years old and making a fuss over a card. Didnt expect this from you, Em. Ill tell Mum what youre playing at.
Feel free, I replied, and hung up.
My hands trembled slightly, but instead of shame, I felt a strange, light relief. For the first time, Id said no. And nothing fell apart. The ceiling didnt collapse. Meanwhile, the dough quietly rose under its cloth.
Andrew came home looking sheepish that evening. Clearly, Mum and Sophie had given him a proper earful.
Em, Mum rang she says Sophies in tears, the trips ruined. Cant we just take the dog? Would it really be that much bother?
I looked long at Andrew.
Andrew, they forgot my big birthday. Not just any birthdaymy fortieth. There wasnt an apology. Sophie only called because she wanted free dog-sitting. Does that sound fair to you?
I suppose not, he sighed, slumping into the chair. But they are family.
Exactly. Family means respect. Not being treated like staff. Thats it, Andrew. No more being an easy touch.
And that was that. We didnt take Lottie. Sophie had to stump up for the kennel, and for two weeks, I was persona non gratawhispered about, called petty and dramatic.
But the months ticked on, and soon the big event of the year in the family was loomingBarbaras 70th.
This jubilee was to be a grand affair. Barbara, a formidable woman fond of showing off, was inviting the entire clan plus old colleagues and neighbours. The venue was their country cottagea big house outside town which Andrew had spent years fixing up.
The drill was always the same: two weeks before, Barbara would ring me with a shopping list. As the practical family member with a car, I was expected to buy and ferry everything, then spend two days at the cooker, peeling spuds and roasting meats, while Barbara and Sophie got dolled up for the guests.
She called this time mid-January.
Emily, love! How are you, dear? Not down with anything, I hope? Anyway, not to ramble. With my birthday coming, we must get organised! Got my list, ready? Get a pen, dear: three jars of proper red caviarno bargainshalf a kilo of smoked salmon, ten kilos of pork for roasting, get the nice cut so its tender Well do five salads…
I listened to the list, stirring my coffee, pen untouched beside me.
Barbara, I interrupted gently, just as she was debating brands of mayonnaise, who, exactly, will be doing all this cooking?
Well, you and I, she sounded indignant. You in the kitchen, obviously, Ill take chargecant stand up long, you know how my legs are. Sophie can help lay the table, if she shows up early.
Im afraid I wont be able to help, I replied, voice even. I have plans. Ill arrive as a guest, in time for the party.
The silence through the phone couldve been sliced with a knife.
Plans? Barbaras tone turned arctic. What could be more important than your mother-in-laws seventieth? Are you serious, Emily? Whos going to cook? Me, a poorly pensioner? Or Sophie, who cant ruin her manicure?
You could hire catering. Or get food from a restaurant. Its straightforward. It comes hot, nicely presented, and theres no washing up.
Catering? Seen their prices? My pensions not bottomless! Anyway, nothing beats homemade. Now look, Emily, enough games. Consider yourself told off about the dog thing, but a party is sacred. I expect you Friday evening at the cottage, with the groceries. Ill WhatsApp the list to Andrew since youre busy.
She hung up.
Andrew came home looking pale.
Em, Mums in a state. Shes sent a shopping listits over four hundred quid. She expects us there Friday. What should we do?
You can go, I said, leafing through a magazine. If you want to buy it all, feel free. But I wont be there Friday. And I wont cook. Ive told your mother.
But itll be a disaster! Everyone will come and therell be nothing to eat. Shell never let me forget it!
Remember my birthday, Andrew. The food wasnt the problemthe empty seats were. Id spent two days in that kitchen. I waited. And you lot just forgot. So Im going to do as you did. Ill come, Ill wish her happy birthday. But no more skivvying. If your mum wants a feast, let her hire in or ask her daughter.
Andrew paced, muttered into his phone, called people. In the end, he bought the supplies. But he couldnt cook for toffee. Sophie declared that kitchen jobs ruined her hands.
The Saturday came. The big day.
I rose late, took a long soak, gave myself a facemask, put on my best navy blue dress, did my hair. I looked stunning.
Andrew had gone to the cottage at the crack of dawn, flapping about trying to organise something. He called me five times: Em, please, cant you come early? Its chaos, Mums yelling, nothings prepared!
Ill arrive at two, as per the invitation, I replied each time, and hung up.
I ordered a minicabexecutive class. On the way I picked up a bouquetnot the usual enormous roses, just a modest, elegant bunch of chrysanthemums. And a small gift from the shop.
When I pulled up to the cottage, the drive was full of guests cars. But from the house came the sound not of music, but shouting and clattering.
Inside was carnage. Barbara, crimson-faced in her dressing gown and curlers, rushed about the kitchen. Sophie, moody in a posh dress with an apron over the top, was wrestling with a tin of peas, cursing her new manicure. Andrew, sooty and frazzled, was making a hash of the BBQ outside.
The guestsvarious aunties and unclessat in the lounge at an empty table, just some bottles of water and stacks of plates.
Look whos decided to show up! Barbara shrieked at the sight of me. She swans in like royalty while were run ragged! Wheres your conscience, Emily?
Afternoon, Barbara! I beamed, Happy birthday! Wishing you health and many years ahead.
I handed over the bouquet and the little box.
Whats this? she sniffed, barely glancing at the flowers. Get yourself to the kitchen, we need you! The potatoes arent even on, nothings ready, guests are famished!
Barbara, Im a guest today, I said clearly, so everyone heard. I came to wish you well. I dont do kitchen duty in an evening dress. I did warn you two weeks ago that Id not be helping. You said youd manage.
How dare you! Right here, in front of everyone! Youre humiliating me!
Sophie slammed the tin on the table.
Em, youre unbelievable! Ive ruined my nails because of you! Get in here and help!
Sophie, this is your mums party, I replied. Makes sense for her daughter to pitch in. Im just the daughter-in-lawwhich you love reminding me, every time theres money or decisions to be made. So treat me as a guest.
I walked into the lounge and sat on a free chair.
Good afternoon, all, I nodded to the silent crowd. Lovely weather for it, isnt it? Pity there are no nibbles, but Im sure the hostess has surprises in store.
Just then Andrew appeared, reeking of burnt coals.
The barbecues ruined, he said, defeated. I got distracted and the meats beyond saving.
Silence. Twenty hungry guests eyed the hosts. Barbara collapsed into a chair, clutching her chest this time in genuine distress.
All her fault! she jabbed at me. Emilys sabotaged the lot! Arrived on purpose to see me fail! Evil!
Barbara, I cut her off, standing up. I havent sabotaged anything. Ive simply mirrored your actions. You forgot my milestone birthday and blanked me. Treated me as expendable help. I wanted to remind you that Im a person, toowith birthdays and feelings. Please, open your present.
Barbara tore open the box, hands shaking. Inside was a cheap wall calendar with kittens.
Whats this? she whispered.
A calendar, I explained. Ive marked every family members birthdayincluding minein red. So next year you dont forget. Thoughtful of me, dont you think? You gave me a pound-shop shower gel once. A fair swap.
Someone snorted. Uncle Bill roared.
Shes got you there, Babs! Youre always bragging about your golden daughter-in-law but forgot her fortieth? Poor show.
Shut up! snapped Barbara.
The party was a lost cause. Lunch was some diced sausage, tinned sardines, and those blasted peas. No hot food. The guests stayed glum, swigging vodka with nothing to eat and muttering among themselves.
After an hour, I called a cab.
Ill go home, I think, I said to Andrew. This doesnt feel festive at all.
Em, Mum will never forgive you, he whispered, walking me to the door.
Well, now you know what my effort was worth, Andrew, I replied. No one respected it, but now youve all seen what its like without it. Come home once youve cleared up. Ill order us a pizzaa decent one.
I left.
Andrews family was in turmoil for weeks after that. Barbara simmered with embarrassment, which quickly shifted into outright dislike for me. Sophie howled that I was selfish.
But something remarkable happenedAndrew stopped making excuses. At that birthday party, seeing his mother not as the grand matriarch but as a flustered, helpless woman, unable to muster a basic meal, he finally saw the difference between our warm, welcoming homerun by meand the chaos at his mothers.
A month later, Andrew arrived home on a Wednesday, arms full of roses.
These are for you, he said. And I told Mum were not doing the Easter gardening at hers. Ive booked us into a hotel for the long weekend. Just us.
I breathed in the roses and smiled.
What about the potatoes?
Well buy them, he grinned. And were done buying love from relatives with our backs. You were right, Em. Respect should go both ways.
Barbara and Sophie were chilly for months. But by the next Mothering Sunday, I got a text from Sophie: Happy Mothers Day, Em! Hope its a good one. Complete with a tulip emoji.
It wasnt a sweeping triumph. I wasnt suddenly best friends with Sophie and Barbaras not baking me cakes. But at last, they understoodno more free rides. That era was over, and the door to it now only opened with mutual respect and remembering important occasions.
And as Andrew later told me, the kitten calendar hangs in pride of place at Barbaras. My birthday is circled in bright redjust in case.
If this story rings a bell with you, take it from menever let anyone treat your time and kindness like a bottomless well. I learnt, at forty, that saying no sometimes is the key to being valued.
