**The Forgotten Birthday Card**
Emma Thompson came home feeling really down.
“Hey there! Fancy some dinner?” her husband, James, greeted her with a smile in the hallway.
“Did you actually cook something? Since when do you step into the kitchen?” she asked, surprised.
“Well, it’s your birthday. I thought you shouldn’t be slaving over the stove today,” James replied cheerfully.
Emma sat on the hallway bench and suddenly burst into tears.
“Em, what’s wrong?” James panicked.
“She didn’t even say anything… Not a single word…” she whispered between sobs.
“Who? Who are you talking about?” James was baffled. He couldn’t understand why his wife was so upset on what should’ve been a happy day.
Since morning, Emma had been in a sour mood. Today was her 60th birthday. They’d decided to keep things low-key at home—no big party. But at work, there’d been the usual fuss—cake, speeches, toasts. The whole thing had drained her, and all she’d wanted was to get home, sit in peace, and unwind.
Later, her sister rang.
“So, did you get spoiled today?” she asked.
“Oh, the usual. Work did the whole thing. James got me flowers and booked us a week in the Cotswolds for summer,” Emma said flatly.
“That’s lovely! At our age, we deserve a treat. And the kids? Is Mark still on that project up North?”
“Yeah, another month to go. He called this morning and sent over a beautiful potted orchid later.”
“What about Sophie? She lives literally down the road. Did she at least pop in?”
“Didn’t even text…” Emma sighed bitterly. “After everything we’ve done for them, and she couldn’t even send a proper card.”
“What?!” her sister gasped. “I’ve got two daughters-in-law, and sure, they’ve messed up, but never this badly. Honestly? Nothing at all?”
Late that night, just before eleven, Emma’s phone pinged. A message. It was a generic e-card—some clipart with *Happy Birthday* slapped on it. No personal note. No call. No effort at all. Just a forwarded image.
“That’s all I’m worth to her,” Emma muttered to James before bed. “Conveniently forgetting they’re living in *our* old house, the one we handed over without a second thought.”
“Come on, love, don’t let it get to you. Kids these days—tap a button, send a meme, job done,” James tried to soothe her.
“No, James. It’s not ‘job done.’ It’s disrespect. A milestone like this isn’t just another date. And little things like this? They show a lot.”
The next morning, Emma’s mood hadn’t improved. The hurt just festered. She kept replaying yesterday in her head, digging up every little slight, winding herself up until she was close to tears again. James saw it but didn’t know how to fix it—so he rang their son.
“Mum’s upset again,” Mark sighed the moment he answered. “Is it Sophie?”
“I’m not *angry*,” Emma cut in, snatching the phone. “Just disappointed. Someone who lives *ten minutes away* couldn’t even say two words.”
“Mum, cut her some slack, she’s been swamped at work,” Mark defended.
“Oh, please!” Emma scoffed. “She had time to send some tacky e-card but not a proper message? How very modern.”
Later, Mark did bring it up with Sophie.
“I *completely* forgot,” she admitted. “Work was mad, I was dead on my feet when I got home. So I sent *something*, at least. I was going to drop by with a proper gift this weekend.”
“Too late now,” Mark muttered. “Mum’s proper hurt. And you know how long she holds onto things.”
Come Saturday, Sophie was buried in work again. Sunday? She just wanted a lie-in. By the time she thought about visiting, it was too late.
“Ah, well,” she told Mark. “Next time. It’s not the end of the world.”
But Emma wasn’t having it.
“Don’t bother with some half-hearted visit now,” she said coldly when Mark suggested it. “That ship’s sailed.”
“So you *don’t* want us to come?”
“No,” Emma snapped. “I don’t need fans. I need respect. And if that’s too much? Don’t pretend.”
Sophie, for her part, didn’t think she’d done anything *that* bad. But she knew how proud Emma could be—so for their anniversary, she insisted they visit with a gift.
“We’ll say we wanted to wait until *both* occasions,” she told Mark, grinning. “Time to smooth things over.”
Emma opened the door.
“Well, look who finally remembered,” she said dryly.
“Mum, come on,” Mark sighed. “We *do* care. Life just gets in the way sometimes.”
Sophie played her part—helping set the table, clearing plates, keeping things light. Then, over tea, she casually dropped:
“Oh, we’re thinking of redoing the hallway wallpaper. You’ve got such a good eye—could you help us pick something?”
“Of course!” Emma beamed.
On the way home, Mark frowned.
“Since when are we redecorating?”
“We’re not,” Sophie smirked. “But if your mum feels *needed*, she might stop sulking.”
And it worked. Within days, Emma was telling her neighbour how hopeless the kids were at choosing décor without her. The grudge seemed to fade.
At least until the next slip-up…
