Our children didn’t come for our anniversary—and that was the start of our new life. At last, we remembered what it means to be happy.
It had been years since Emma got married. With each passing year, the emptiness between us grew. It felt like she’d erased us from her life. Her calls became rare, her visits even rarer. And when we did meet, her eyes were distant, cold.
That Friday, I hesitated before dialing her number. James and I had planned a quiet celebration for our thirtieth wedding anniversary—just the family, a barbecue, a few hours together. I longed for warmth, familiar voices, even if only for a little while…
“Hello?” Emma finally answered, breathless.
“Emma, love, it’s Mum. Are you at the gym again? Can you talk?”
“No, Mum, I’m washing Tom’s car.”
“Why you?”
“Who else, Mum? A car wash costs a fortune. I’m not made of glass.”
“Right, darling… Listen, I was thinking—come over with Tom on Sunday. It’s our anniversary. We’ll have a nice chat…”
“Since when do you celebrate anniversaries?” She laughed. “Midlife crisis, is it?”
“Thirty years, Emma. How could we not?”
“Sorry, Mum. Can’t make it. We’ve got a wedding—Tom’s mate Jake is getting hitched. There’ll be more anniversaries, but this wedding’s a one-off.”
I gripped the phone, forcing back the lump in my throat.
“What a shame… We were really looking forward to it…”
“Us too, Mum. But you can’t say no to people, can you? Don’t take it to heart—we’ll make it up to you.”
“Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll call your brother, then.”
Peter couldn’t come either. He had his own plans. When I hung up, the tears came without warning. Like a child denied sweets. Like a mother forgotten.
“Margaret, what’s wrong?” James walked in, finding me quietly crying in the kitchen.
“Nothing, love… The kids aren’t coming. And here I was, silly old me, imagining us all together…”
“Don’t fret. It’s our day. You and me—that’s all we need.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Resentment choked me. My heart screamed, *Why? Why don’t they need me? Didn’t we do enough? We raised them, helped them buy flats, gave them all we could… And now we’re strangers…*
“Margaret,” James murmured, “they’ve got their own lives. But you’ve got me. And I’m right here.”
“It just feels empty, James…” was all I could say. “You’re at work all day, and I’m alone…”
The next day, he came home early. Smiling.
“What’s happened?”
He pulled a huge bouquet from behind his back.
“For you. And tomorrow, we’re going to the lake. A whole week. Just you and me.”
The cottage was like something from a dream—wooden, overlooking the water, surrounded by flowers and birdsong. I woke to the scent of roses, the bed strewn with petals. Balloons floated in the corners, and on the mirror, scrawled in lipstick: *”Happy Anniversary, my love!”*
I nearly cried with joy. Then I glanced out the window—and saw James holding a basket. He opened it, and a tiny *”meow”* escaped. A little ginger ball of fluff blinked up at me.
“Well? Ready for a new family member?” He grinned like a schoolboy.
“James… 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 got home, our phones buzzed nonstop.
“Mum! Where have you been?! We’ve been calling! Your phone was off!”
“Calm down, darling. Dad and I were away. We’re allowed a little time for ourselves, aren’t we?”
“Of course… But you didn’t call, didn’t worry…”
“Now it’s your turn to worry. Dad and I have decided to live for ourselves.”
“For yourselves? Mum, are you serious?”
“We’re on our honeymoon, love. And right now, we’re far too busy for you.”
A year has passed. James and I live differently now. He retired, we spend less—but we’re happier. The kids call more, visit more. And when we look at each other, we thank fate for not letting us fade away. For reminding us: the most important thing in this life is *us*.
