The children didn’t come for our anniversary—and it became the start of a new life. We finally remembered what it means to be happy.
Years had passed since Emily got married, and with each one, the distance between us grew. It was as if she’d crossed us out of her life. Calls became rare, visits even rarer. And when we did meet, her eyes were cold and distant.
That Friday, I hesitated before dialing her number. James and I had planned a quiet celebration for our thirtieth wedding anniversary—just the family gathered for a barbecue, sharing stories over a meal. I longed for warmth, familiar voices, even if only for a few hours…
“Hello?” Emily answered, slightly breathless.
“Emily, love, 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 costs a fortune. I’m not made of glass.”
“Alright, darling… Listen, I was wondering—could you and Paul come round on Sunday? It’s our anniversary. We’d love to have you.”
“Since when do you celebrate these things?” She chuckled. “Midlife crisis, is it?”
“Thirty years, Emily. How could we not?”
“Sorry, Mum. Can’t make it. We’ve got a wedding—Paul’s mate Jack’s getting married. There’ll be other anniversaries.”
I gripped the phone, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“What a shame… We were really hoping—”
“Us too, Mum. But we can’t just say no to people. Don’t take it to heart—we’ll make it up to you.”
“Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll try your brother, then.”
Thomas couldn’t come either. When I hung up, the tears came without warning. Like a child denied sweets. Like a mother forgotten.
“Margaret, love, what’s wrong?” James stepped into the kitchen and found me quietly weeping.
“It’s nothing, James… The kids aren’t coming. And here I was, fool that I am, dreaming of us all together…”
“Come now. It’s *our* day. Just you and me—that’s enough.”
That night, I lay awake, resentment burning inside. *Why don’t they need me? Haven’t we done enough? Raised them, helped with their homes, supported them as best we could… And now we’re strangers.*
“Maggie,” James murmured, “they’ve got their own lives. But you’ve got me. And I’m right here.”
“I just feel so empty, James…” was all I could say. “You’re at work all day, and I’m on my own…”
The next afternoon, he came home early, smiling.
“What’s happened?”
He pulled an enormous bouquet from behind his back.
“For you. And tomorrow, we’re going to the lake. A whole week. Just us.”
The cottage was like something from a storybook—wooden, with a view of the water, flowers blooming everywhere, birds singing. I woke to the scent of rose petals scattered across the bed. Balloons floated in the corners, and on the mirror, written in lipstick: *”Happy anniversary, my love.”*
I barely held back happy tears. Then, glancing out the window, I saw James holding a basket. He opened it—and a tiny “*meow*” sounded. A little ginger ball of fluff blinked up at me.
“So, ready to welcome the newest family member?” He grinned like a schoolboy.
“James… This is the best gift I’ve ever had.”
We spent the week like newlyweds. Seven days, but memories to last a lifetime. And when we returned—the phone wouldn’t stop ringing.
“Mum! Where have you *been*?! We’ve been calling! Your phone was off!”
“Calm down, darling. Your father and I were on holiday. We’re allowed a bit of time for ourselves, aren’t we?”
“Of course… But you didn’t call, didn’t check in…”
“Now it’s your turn to wonder. We’ve decided to start living for *us*.”
“For yourselves? Mum, are you serious?”
“Your father and I are on our second honeymoon. And right now, we’re busy.”
A year’s gone by. James and I live differently now. He retired, we tightened our belts—but we’re happier. The kids visit more, call often. And when we look at each other, we thank fate for not letting us fade away. For reminding us: in this life, the most important thing is *us*.
