Lucille hurriedly laid out napkins and set the tableware. Today was her husband Albert’s birthday—not a milestone, but meaningful nonetheless. Their daughters, Emily and Charlotte, had promised to visit with their families, and the grandchildren had begged for “a proper celebration, like in the old days.” Lucille’s mind drifted back to the nineties, when life had been simpler yet harder.
Money was scarce then, and groceries felt like a small victory every time. But she’d always made sacrifices—for her family, for warmth and laughter in their home. Especially before holidays.
That year, it had started with a childish plea. Emily and Charlotte came home from school with glum faces, their good grades no match for their low spirits. Finally, Emily admitted, “Mum, all the girls at school have angora berets—just us in our old hats. Please, can we get some?”
Lucille gave in. Times were tight, but her girls were bright, kind, and helpful. She dashed to the market, scrimped the last of their pounds, and bought the berets. The joy on their faces was worth it—but now there was nothing left for the celebration.
Fate intervened. The next day at the grocer’s, someone shouted, “Bacon!” and the crowd surged forward. Lucille managed to snag two packs of their favourite streaky. Then, on Saturday, she secured butter—the shop assistant whispered when the next “surplus” would appear. With ration coupons and her girls in tow, Lucille pulled it off.
By Sunday, the table was set like in better days. At its centre sat a golden, crisp roast chicken atop a bed of rice. Albert’s father adored the salad of melted cheese, eggs, and garlic. The apple crumble turned out splendidly—even Mother-in-law asked for the recipe.
Now, decades later, it was happening again. The girls were grown, each with families of their own. Albert’s and Lucille’s parents were long gone. Yet here they were, another Sunday, another birthday. Albert had taken their spaniel, Winston, for a walk while Lucille prepared the table. No takeaway pies or kebabs—this was a proper homemade feast. Warm, familiar, heartfelt.
The guests arrived almost at once. Grandchildren clamoured in the hallway, kicking off their shoes, while Emily and Charlotte embraced their mother. “Mum, what’s that lovely smell?” Emily asked. “We don’t want takeaway!” the grandchildren shouted from the corridor.
Albert was the last to enter, greeted by cheers and well-wishes. “Shall we sit down?” Lucille smiled.
When they stepped into the dining room, everyone stilled. “Mum,” Charlotte breathed, “it’s just like when we were little… The chicken, the salad, the rice…”
Laughter, toasts, tea and cake—just like before. Only wiser.
Once the house was quiet again, Albert wrapped an arm around Lucille. “Thank you, love. You brought me right back to those days. We were happy then, weren’t we? Even saving a year for the sofa, never fixing that drafty porch. But we had each other. Still do. That’s what matters.”
“Happy birthday, my dear. May we share many, many more.”
