The children didn’t come for our anniversary—and that marked the beginning of a new life. At last, we remembered what it meant to be happy.
Years had passed since Emily married, and with each one, the distance between us grew. It was as if she’d erased us from her life. Calls became rare, visits even scarcer. When we did meet, her gaze was icy, distant.
That Friday, I hesitated before dialing. Victor and I had planned a quiet celebration—three decades together. Just family, a barbecue, an evening shared at the table. I longed for warmth, for laughter, even if only for a few hours…
“Hello?” Emily answered, slightly out of breath.
“Em, it’s Mum. Are you at the gym again? Can you talk?”
“No, Mum, I’m washing Paul’s car.”
“Why *you*?”
“Who else, Mum? Taking it to the car wash is expensive. I’m not made of glass.”
“Alright, love… Listen, I wanted to ask—could you and Paul come over Sunday? It’s our anniversary. We’ll have a proper chat, just us…”
“Since when do you celebrate anniversaries?” she scoffed. “Feeling sentimental in your old age?”
“Thirty years, Emily. How could we not?”
“Sorry, Mum. We can’t. Paul’s mate Jake is getting married. There’ll be other anniversaries, but this wedding’s a one-off.”
I tightened my grip on the phone, forcing the sting in my chest down.
“That’s… a shame. We were really hoping—”
“We would’ve loved to, Mum. But we can’t say no to people. Don’t be upset—we’ll make it up to you.”
“It’s fine,” I whispered. “I’ll call your brother.”
Mark wasn’t free either. He had his own plans. When I hung up, the tears came unbidden—like a child denied sweets, like a mother forgotten.
“Nina, what’s wrong?” Victor stepped into the kitchen, catching me swiping at my cheeks.
“Nothing, Vic… The kids aren’t coming. And here I was, foolish enough to dream of us all together…”
“Come here.” He pulled me close. “It’s *our* day. Just us—that’s enough.”
I lay awake that night, resentment tightening my throat. *Why don’t they need me? Didn’t we do enough? School, flats, every sacrifice—and now we’re strangers…*
“Nina,” Victor murmured, “they’ve got their own lives. But you’ve got me. Right here.”
“I’m *empty*, Vic…” My voice cracked. “You’re at work all day, and I’m alone…”
The next evening, he came home early, grinning.
“What’s happened?”
From behind his back, he produced an armful of roses.
“These are for you. And tomorrow—we’re going to the Lakes. A whole week. Just us.”
The cottage was like something from a storybook—wooden, overlooking the water, wildflowers and birdsong everywhere. I woke to the scent of petals strewn across the sheets. Balloons shimmered in the corners, and on the mirror, scrawled in lipstick: *”Happy Anniversary, darling!”*
My breath caught. Then, through the window, I spotted Victor carrying a basket. He opened it—a soft *”mew”* escaped. A tiny ginger kitten blinked up at me.
“So?” He grinned like a boy. “New addition to the family?”
“Vic…” I cradled the fluffball to my chest. “This is the best gift I’ve ever had.”
That week felt like a second honeymoon. Seven days, but memories to last a lifetime. When we returned, our phones exploded.
“Mum! Where have you *been*?! We’ve been calling for days!”
“Calm down, love. Your father and I were away. We’re allowed a life of our own.”
“Of course… But you didn’t call, didn’t worry—”
“Now it’s *your* turn to worry. Because we’ve decided to live for *us*.”
“For—what? Mum, you’re joking.”
“Honeymoon phase, darling. And right now, we’re busy.”
A year on, Victor and I live differently. He retired; we cut costs but found richer joy. The kids call more, visit often. And when we catch each other’s gaze, we smile—grateful fate forced us to remember: in this life, the most important thing is *us*.
