—Mum, please don’t say you forgot!—Emily shrieked as she burst into the hallway, tossing her designer handbag aside. —Honestly, Mum! I reminded you a month ago!
Margaret slowly turned from the mirror, where she had been adjusting her silver hair. Her hands trembled slightly, but her gaze remained steady.
—What are you talking about, love?— she asked softly.
—What do you *mean* what am I talking about?— Emily flung herself onto the sofa. —It’s Daniel’s birthday tomorrow! His fifteenth! And you’re standing there like it’s any other day!
—No, I remember…— Margaret sank into her armchair, folding her hands on her lap. —I just thought maybe we shouldn’t make such a fuss…
—*Shouldn’t make a fuss?*— Emily froze, staring at her mother. —He’s my son! Your grandson! Fifteen is a big deal, and you’re saying we *shouldn’t make a fuss?*
Margaret sighed. She knew what was coming. It was always like this when Emily visited with Daniel for the weekend. Her daughter had always been fiery, demanding—but since the divorce, she’d become downright impossible.
—Emmy, calm down. I remember. I’ve bought a gift, ordered the cake from the bakery,— she said wearily. —But I just wonder… does he even *want* a big celebration? He’s been so quiet lately.
—Quiet?— Emily scoffed. —He’s a teenager! They’re all quiet around adults. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t celebrate. If anything, we should show him we *care!*
A floorboard creaked in the hallway. Daniel appeared—lanky, tousled dark hair, his father’s serious eyes.
—All right, Gran?— he muttered, glancing at his mother. —What’s all the shouting?
—We’re *discussing* your birthday,— Emily switched to saccharine sweetness. —Tomorrow’s the big day, darling! Gran’s ordered a cake, and I’ve brought presents—
—Don’t bother,— Daniel mumbled, slouching onto the sofa’s edge. —Not fussed.
—What do you mean, *not fussed?*— Emily recoiled. —Fifteen is *important!*
Daniel shrugged and buried himself in his phone. Margaret watched him anxiously. Something was wrong. For months, he’d grown more withdrawn, barely speaking to her—and with his mother, just clipped replies.
—Daniel, love,— she asked gently, —what would you really like for your birthday?
—Nothing,— he said without looking up.
—*Nothing?*— Emily dropped beside him. —What about a new phone? Or we could upgrade your laptop—
—Mum, give it a rest,— he snapped, standing. —I’m going to my room.
—*What?* We’ve only just got here! Let’s make plans, decide who to invite—
—*No one!*— Daniel spun around. —Got it? No one. Just want to be left alone.
—But *why?*— Emily’s voice faltered. —You used to love parties…
—Used to.— His bitter laugh made Margaret’s chest tighten. —Lots of things *used* to be different. Now you lot don’t need to pretend these birthdays matter.
The slam of his door echoed. Emily stood frozen, lips parted.
—What’s *wrong* with him?— she turned to Margaret. —He was always so happy before!
Margaret exhaled heavily. She’d seen the change in him—how he suffered from the divorce, torn between his parents, exhausted by their sniping.
—Emily, sit,— she urged. —We need to talk.
—About *what?*— Emily paced. —It’s obvious! Richard’s turning him against me! I *know* how he twists things!
—This isn’t about Richard,— Margaret said carefully. —Daniel’s just tired. Tired of your rows, of bouncing between houses…
—What *rows?*— Emily bristled. —We *agreed* on everything! We had a *civilised* divorce!
—Civilised?— Margaret shook her head. —Emmy, I hear you on the phone with his father. The barbs, the custody battles…
—I’m *fighting* for my son!— Emily’s voice cracked. —He’s *my* child!
—And Richard’s. And Daniel *knows* that. He’s caught in the middle.— Margaret stood, touching her daughter’s arm. —Love, perhaps… think of *him*, not yourself?
—I *am* thinking of him!— Emily jerked away. —That’s why I want to *celebrate* him! Show him he’s loved!
—Or show him he can have peace? That home doesn’t have to be a battlefield?
Emily huffed, turning to the window. Rain streaked the glass, the garden grey and sodden.
—You’re taking his side, aren’t you?— she whispered. —Like everyone else.
—Not *sides*, love. I’m *for* Daniel. And for you. But sometimes… what we think is kindness isn’t what’s needed.
—Meaning?
Margaret sat again, weighing her words.
—When you were little, I *insisted* on piano lessons—though you adored painting. Made you join ballet when you begged for football. I thought I *knew* what was best.
—So?— Emily frowned.
—So you grew up and did the *opposite*. Spiteful, sometimes. Because I never *listened*.
—What’s that got to do with *Daniel?*
—*Everything.* He’s said he doesn’t want a party. You’re not *hearing* him.
—He’s a *child*! They don’t *know* what’s best!
—Do *we?*— Margaret smiled sadly. —Emmy, I’m seventy-two. And I’ve learned children often *do* know—we just don’t like their answers.
Emily perched on the armrest.
—Mum… I’m terrified of losing him,— she admitted. —Since the divorce, he’s like a *stranger*. I thought—if I made his birthday perfect, he’d *know* I love him.
—He *knows*,— Margaret squeezed her hand. —But right now, he needs quiet. Stability. Not forced smiles.
—So we do *nothing?*
—We *ask* him. Honestly. What *he* wants. Then do *that*.
Emily bit her lip. The rain drummed harder.
—All right,— she whispered. —But what if he says *nothing?*
—Then we just *be* there. Sometimes that’s enough.
Another creak. Daniel hovered in the doorway.
—Can I come in?—
—Of course, love,— Margaret beckoned.
He sat opposite, fidgeting.
—Sorry I shouted,— he mumbled. —Just… had enough.
—Of what?— Emily asked softly.
—You and Dad—always asking if I’m *okay*, if anyone’s *upset* me. But you two can’t even *talk* without sniping.
—We *try*—
—*Try?*— Daniel’s laugh was hollow. —Mum, I’m not *stupid*. I see how you *seethe* when he calls. How *tense* you get when he picks me up. He does it too. Think it’s *easy* for me?
Emily’s breath caught. She’d never realised he *noticed*.
—Daniel, we *agreed*—
—*Agreed?*— His voice cracked. —You mutter about what a *jerk* he is for *hours* after he rings. He tells me you’re *unstable*, that I can’t *trust* you. That’s *civilised*?
—Darling…—
—And now you want a *birthday*,— he continued, —where you’ll *pretend* everything’s fine. But it’s *not*. You *hate* each other, and I’m just… *pity*.
—We *love* you!—
—Then *act* like it!— Daniel stood. —Just *once*, talk to each other without jabs. Let me love you *both* without feeling like I’m *betraying* someone!
He sank back, face in his hands.
—Know what I *want?*— he whispered. —For you to *stop* fighting. To sit in the same *room* without snide remarks. To not feel *guilty* for wanting Dad. Or *you*.
Emily dropped to her knees before him.
—Daniel… I’m *sorry*—
—Sorry for *what?* That I have *feelings?* That *I* hurt too?
—I *knew*— she choked. —I just… thought I was *prot—From him,— Daniel finished quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, and for the first time in months, she truly saw the hurt in his eyes—not as her child, but as someone who had been carrying the weight of their broken family all on his own.
