For my sixtieth birthday, I’d planned everything with extra care. Weeks of fussing over details: the menu, the shopping, cooking all the family favourites—beef Wellington, shepherd’s pie, a proper trifle, and a Victoria sponge I’d baked myself. I wanted it perfect, with all the children, grandchildren, and relatives gathered round one table to celebrate.
I live in London with my youngest, Emily—thirty and still waiting for Mr. Right, bless her. My eldest, William, is forty, married to Victoria, and they’ve got a lovely little girl, my granddaughter Lily.
I’d made sure to tell everyone the party was on a Saturday—no work excuses. They all promised to come. I imagined us laughing over old stories, raising a glass, making memories.
Nobody showed up.
I rang William’s mobile again and again. Nothing. Silence. With every unanswered call, my heart sank deeper. Instead of cheers and cake, I spent the evening in tears. The festive table, the sponge I’d carefully layered—it all felt pointless.
Emily stayed by my side all night, bless her, keeping me from crumbling completely.
Next morning, I couldn’t stand it. Packing up the leftovers, I drove to William’s myself. One dreadful thought looped in my head—had something terrible happened?
Victoria answered the door in a crumpled dressing gown, blinking like I’d woken her.
“You didn’t have to come round,” she said flatly.
I stepped inside. William was still in bed. He shuffled into the kitchen a few minutes later, glowering, and wordlessly put the kettle on.
I didn’t mince words:
“Why didn’t you come yesterday? Why didn’t you even pick up the phone?”
William stayed silent. Victoria answered for him. And her words hit harder than I expected.
She claimed they’d been resentful for years—apparently, the one-bed flat I’d given them wasn’t enough. Not compared to my three-bed house. They “needed more space” for a second child, she said.
I stood there, stunned.
Memories flashed by. After my husband left, I raised two kids alone. My parents helped buy the house. I worked myself ragged—school fees, braces, teenage rebellions. When William brought Victoria home, I gave them a room, Emily another, and took the box room for myself.
When Lily was born seven years later, I was the one rocking her to sleep, pushing the pram through Hyde Park, wiping her tears.
Then my estranged mother-in-law passed and left me a dingy little flat in Croydon. I spent my savings refurbishing it—and handed the keys to William and Victoria, thinking I’d given them a fresh start.
Turns out, it wasn’t enough.
I walked out without a goodbye. The whole drive home, Victoria’s words echoed in my ears, sharp as a knife.
How could kindness be taken for granted? How could the people you love most turn so ungrateful?
Now I understand.
You can’t spend your life giving, sacrificing, hoping for gratitude that might never come.
People grow used to kindness—then demand more. And when they don’t get it, they blame you.
That evening, I sat at the same table where yesterday’s uneaten cake still stood. Sipping tea, I watched the autumn leaves drift past my London window.
And suddenly, I felt lighter.
No more debts.
No more justifying myself.
No more pouring love into a black hole of silence and resentment.
Now? It’s my turn.
And I intend to take it.
