The Forgotten Birthday Card
Margaret Elizabeth returned home in a wretched mood.
“Hello! Will you be joining me for supper?” her husband, Charles, greeted her cheerfully in the hallway.
“You cooked? But you never step into the kitchen,” she replied, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“It’s your birthday, my dear. I thought you shouldn’t have to cook on such a day,” he said brightly.
Margaret sank onto the hallway stool and, without warning, burst into tears.
“Margaret, what’s happened?” Charles asked, alarmed.
“She didn’t say a word… Not even a greeting…” she whispered between sobs.
“Who? Who are you talking about?” Charles was thoroughly bewildered, unable to fathom why his wife was weeping on what should have been a joyous day.
From the moment she awoke, Margaret had felt out of sorts. Today marked her sixtieth year. They had decided against a grand celebration at home, keeping it modest instead. Yet at work, she had been obliged to host a small gathering, accepting toasts and congratulations. The whirlwind had exhausted her, and all she had longed for was the quiet comfort of home, where she could rest undisturbed.
In the evening, her sister phoned.
“Well then, were you properly celebrated today?” she inquired.
“Oh, the usual. Work was fine. Charles brought flowers and gifted me a spa retreat—we’ll go in the summer,” Margaret replied, her tone measured.
“Lovely! At our age, we must pamper ourselves. And the children? Is Edward still away on duty?”
“Yes, another month before he returns. He rang this morning and sent a potted orchid later—quite beautiful.”
“And your daughter-in-law? She lives just down the road—did she at least stop by?”
“Not even a message…” Margaret exhaled bitterly. “After all we’ve done for them, she couldn’t even send a card.”
“You’re joking!” her sister exclaimed. “I’ve two daughters-in-law myself, and they’ve never been so thoughtless. Truly, nothing at all?”
Late that night, nearly at eleven, Margaret’s phone chimed. A text. Inside—a generic image from the internet with the words “Happy Birthday.” No personal note. No call. Not even a hint of genuine care. Just a forwarded picture.
“That’s the extent of her concern,” Margaret muttered resentfully to Charles before bed. “How quickly she forgets they’re living in the house we gave them, no strings attached.”
“Don’t let it upset you. Young people these days think sending a picture or a like counts as a greeting,” Charles tried to soothe her.
“No, Charles. It’s not acceptable. It’s disrespectful. A milestone like this isn’t just a date. It marks a passage. Small gestures reveal much.”
By morning, Margaret’s mood had not lifted. The hurt festered. She replayed the previous day in her mind, dwelling on slights, magnifying details, until fresh tears threatened. Charles watched helplessly. He even phoned their son.
“Mum’s upset again,” Edward began wearily. “Is this about Eleanor?”
“I’m not scolding her. But it’s hard to ignore when someone who lives five minutes away can’t even spare a word,” Margaret interjected, snatching the phone. “Tell your wife I remember everything. Including this day.”
“Mum, she was probably just tired. She has her hands full at work,” Edward defended.
“Oh, come off it!” Margaret scoffed. “She had time to send a picture but not two words? How convenient.”
Later, Edward confronted Eleanor.
“I completely forgot…” she admitted. “It was a dreadful day—chaos at work, I barely dragged myself home. I sent something at least. I meant to visit with a gift this weekend.”
“Too late now,” Edward said grimly. “Mum’s hurt. And she won’t forget it.”
Come Saturday, Eleanor was swamped again at work, and by Sunday, she opted to rest. Only late that evening did she recall the visit.
“Oh well,” she told Edward. “We’ll go another time. It’s not the end of the world.”
But Margaret was unmoved.
“Spare me the obligatory visits,” she said icily when her son raised it. “A kindness in time is worth twice as much. It’s too late now.”
“So you don’t want us to come?”
“No,” Margaret replied sharply. “I don’t need dutiful guests. I need respect. And if it isn’t there, don’t pretend.”
Eleanor, for her part, saw no great wrongdoing in her actions. But she recognised that with a mother-in-law like Margaret, tact was required. So when their wedding anniversary approached, she insisted on bringing a gift.
“We’ll say we wanted to celebrate together—that’s why I waited for you,” she winked at Edward. “Best smooth things over.”
Margaret answered the door.
“Well, you’ve remembered at last,” she remarked tartly. “Managed to make it for the anniversary.”
“Mum, please,” Edward sighed. “We haven’t forgotten. Life just gets in the way sometimes.”
Eleanor smiled warmly, helped set the table, cleared plates, and spoke kindly. At one point, she even remarked,
“We’re thinking of redecorating the hall. You’ve such an eye for these things—would you help us choose the wallpaper?”
“Of course, dear,” Margaret beamed.
On the way home, Edward squinted.
“Since when are we redecorating?”
“Oh, we’re not,” Eleanor laughed. “But if your mother feels needed, perhaps she’ll soften.”
And so she did. Within a week, Margaret was telling the neighbour how her taste was indispensable—how the young couple couldn’t even pick wallpaper without her. The hurt seemed to fade. Though, given the chance, it might all flare up again…
