**Diary Entry – 12th October**
My sixtieth birthday was meant to be special. I spent weeks planning—stocking up on food, choosing recipes, imagining the warmth of family around me. I live with my younger daughter, Emily—thirty, still unmarried. My eldest, William, is forty, settled with his wife, Charlotte, and their little girl, Sophie.
I wanted them all there—Emily, William, Charlotte, and Sophie. I cooked everything they loved: shepherd’s pie, roast beef, puddings, and a proper Victoria sponge. I told them weeks in advance—*Saturday, no excuses*.
But Saturday came, and no one did.
I called William—no answer. By evening, the silence was unbearable. Instead of laughter, emptiness. Instead of clinking glasses, just tears. I couldn’t even sit at the table. The flat smelled of freshly baked bread and still felt ice-cold. That night, I wept like a child. Emily tried to comfort me, but I was shattered.
The next morning, I couldn’t wait. I packed leftover food and went to William’s. Maybe something had happened.
Charlotte answered, bleary-eyed in her dressing gown, and without a shred of warmth, said, *”What are you doing here?”*
My heart dropped. Inside, William was just waking up. He offered tea, and I swallowed my hurt to ask, *”Why didn’t you come? Why ignore my calls?”*
He looked down. Charlotte, though, spoke plainly, like she’d been waiting: *”We didn’t want to come. We’re not in the mood for celebrations. We’re stuck in that tiny flat you ‘graciously’ gave us—while you kept the three-bedder. We can’t even think of another child. You handed us scraps and kept the better life for yourself.”*
I froze.
I remembered us—William, Emily, and me—in that three-bedroom after my husband vanished abroad, no calls, no letters. My parents helped me buy it. Seven years, I squeezed into the smallest room so William and Charlotte could have theirs. When Sophie was born, I cared for her daily. Later, when my mother-in-law passed, I renovated her run-down flat and gave it to them—*so they’d have their own space*.
And now, after all that, my sacrifice wasn’t enough.
I left with a lump in my throat. All those years—sleepless nights, second jobs, putting myself last—meant nothing. Some don’t just forget kindness; they grow entitled to it.
I gave them my best years. Worked myself ragged. No holidays, no life of my own. And what did it earn me? Not even the decency of a call on my birthday. They were too busy resenting me—for the *wrong flat*.
The sting isn’t in being alone that day. It’s realizing I loved them more than myself—and it still wasn’t enough. They didn’t want a flat. They wanted everything.
Today taught me: stop waiting for gratitude. Put yourself first. And never sacrifice for those who won’t value it.
