Evening for myself
14November
I trudged home down a dark lane, the puddles halfhidden beneath a carpet of fallen leaves glittering under the few lamplighters that still worked. Late autumn in the Midlands isnt made for strolling; the damp wind got right into my bones, and the houses along the road seemed especially distant and indifferent. I walked a little faster, as if trying to outrun some invisible weight that had settled on me since dawn. Tomorrow is my birthdaya date Ive learned to pretend not to notice.
Inside, the familiar tension tightened: not a joyful anticipation, but a heavy, sticky feeling, like a lump lodged in my chest. Every year the same routineformal messages, brief calls from colleagues, perfunctory smiles. It all feels like a foreign play in which Im forced to act the celebrant, even though I havent felt that role in ages.
Once, things were different. As a child I would wake early, heart thudding with excitement for the day, believing in a tiny miraclethe scent of mums homemade cake with frosting, the rustle of wrapping paper, her warm voice and the chatter of guests around the table. Back then the congratulations were genuine, accompanied by hearty laughter and bustling hands. Now those memories surface only rarely, and each time they leave a faint ache behind.
I turned the flatdoor, and a rush of damp air slapped my face harder. The hall greeted me with its usual chaos: a wet umbrella propped against the wall, jackets slung haphazardly on hooks. I slipped off my shoes and lingered by the mirror; my reflection showed the fatigue of recent weeks and something elsea fleeting sorrow for the lost feeling of celebration.
Did you get in? Emily called from the kitchen before she could hear my answer.
Yeah
Weve long grown accustomed to these brief evening exchanges; each of us goes about our own business, meeting only over dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Our family runs on routinereliable and just a shade boring.
I changed into my loungewear and drifted into the kitchen, where the smell of fresh bread hung in the air. Emily was chopping vegetables for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? I asked, almost flat.
As always, you dont like noisy crowds perhaps well just have the three of us? Invite Mark, your old mate.
I nodded silently and poured myself a mug of tea. My thoughts tangled: I understood Emilys logicwhy throw a party just for the sake of it? Yet something inside balked at this adultlevel pennypinching of feelings.
The evening stretched slowly; I scrolled through news on my phone, trying to distract myself from the nagging thoughts about the next day. Still, the same question kept circling: why has a celebration become a formality? Where has the joy gone?
Morning found my phone buzzing with a chorus of workchat notifications; colleagues sent the usual birthday stickers and GIFs, Happy Birthday! A handful of them added a slightly warmer personal line, but all the words blurred into one transparent script.
I replied mechanically, Thanks! or dropped an emoji. The emptiness only deepened; I caught myself wanting to shove the phone away and forget my birthday until next year.
Emily turned up the kettle a little louder, trying to drown the silence at the table.
Happy birthday How about we order a pizza or some sushi tonight? I dont feel like being stuck at the stove all day.
Whatever you like
A flash of irritation rose in my throat; I immediately regretted it, but said nothing. Inside, a simmer of helpless dissatisfaction with myself and the world boiled over.
Around midday Mark phoned:
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later?
Yeah swing by after work.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The call ended as abruptly as it began, leaving me oddly weary of these short exchangesas if they happened not for me, but because thats how were supposed to behave.
The whole day felt like a halfsleep. The flat smelled of coffee mixed with the lingering damp from the hallway coats; outside the drizzle persisted. I tried to work from home, but my mind kept drifting back to childhood, when any festivity felt like the event of the year. Now it dissolved into the routine, another tick on the calendar.
By evening my mood had turned downright heavy. I finally admitted to myself that I no longer wanted to endure this void for the sake of everyones comfort. I didnt want to keep up appearances for Emily or Markno matter how awkward or silly it might feel to voice my true feelings.
When we all gathered around the kitchen table under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, rain drummed on the windowsill louder than usual, underscoring the cramped world of our modest November evening.
I sat silently, my tea cooling, words refusing to form. I looked first at Emilyshe offered a tired smile across the table; then at Mark, who was glued to his phone, barely nodding to the music drifting from the next room.
And then everything boiled down to a simple statement:
Listen I have something to say.
Emily set down her spoon; Mark lifted his head from the screen.
I always thought it silly to throw a party just for the sake of it but today I realized something else.
The room fell so quiet that even the rain seemed louder.
I miss a real celebration that childhood feeling when you wait all year for the day and everything feels possible.
My throat tightened with emotion.
Emily met my eyes:
You want to try bringing that back?
I gave a barely perceptible nod.
Mark grinned warmly:
Well, now I get why youve been moody all year!
A lightness settled in my chest.
Alright then, Mark said, rubbing his palms together, lets remember how it used to be. You once told me about that creamfilled cake
Without asking, Emily rose and headed to the fridge. There was no sponge cake or frosting, but she produced a pack of plain biscuits and a jar of jam. I couldnt help but smile at the absurd, yet utterly human, gesture. On the table appeared a modest plate of biscuits, a mug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk. Mark pretended to ponder thoughtfully:
Quick cake! Got any candles?
Emily rummaged through a drawer of odds and ends and pulled out the stub of a paraffin candle. She trimmed it down with a knifecrooked, but genuine. We stuck it atop the makeshift mountain of biscuits. I watched the humble tableau and felt a flicker of the anticipation I once knew.
Music? Mark asked.
Not the radioplay what mum and dad used to have on, I replied.
Mark fiddled with his phone while Emily queued up an old playlist on the laptop. Vintage tracks from the nineties filled the room, weaving with the rains patter. It was oddly funny to see adults staging a homegrown performance for one of us, but the pretence of typical birthday messages evaporated. Everyone did what they were good at: Emily poured tea into thickwalled mugs; Mark clapped along to the beat; I found myself smiling without the usual politeness.
The flat grew warmer. The steamedup windows reflected the lamps amber light and the street outside, where only a handful of cars passed. Yet now I watched the rain differentlyit seemed far away, while our own little weather gathered inside.
Remember the game Charades? Emily asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost
Not because you were bad, but because we laughed too long.
We gave it a go at the table. At first it felt awkward: a grown man mimicking a kangaroo for two other grown people. Within a minute the laughter turned genuine; Mark flailed his arms so wildly he almost knocked my mug over; Emily giggled softly, her eyes bright; I finally let my face relax.
We then swapped stories of childhood parties: who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second helping, how we once shattered Mums china set and no one scolded us. Each recollection peeled away the heavy cloud of formalities, replacing it with a snug, warm glow. Time stopped being an enemy.
Suddenly I felt that old childhood sensation againeverything around me seemed possible, at least for one night. I looked at Emily, grateful for her simple, wordless care; I caught Marks glance across the tableunderstanding without mockery.
The music cut off abruptly. Outside, sparse headlights slid over the wet pavement. The flat felt like an island of light amid the bleak autumn.
Emily poured another round of tea:
I did it a bit differently, but isnt the point the script?
I nodded in silence.
I recalled the dread that had haunted me this morning, as if a birthday must inevitably disappoint. Now it seemed a distant misunderstanding. No one expected flawless reactions or grand gestures; no one pushed me toward merriment just to tick a box on the family calendar.
Mark produced an old board game from the cupboard:
Now were really going back in time!
We played well into the night, arguing over rules and laughing at each others silly moves. The rain outside drummed a lullaby.
Later the three of us sat quietly under the lamps gentle glow. Crumbs of biscuits littered the table, the jam jar empty, the tea mug halffilledremnants of our modest feast.
I realised then that I no longer needed to prove anything to anyone, not even myself. The celebration returned not because someone had scripted the perfect party or bought a fancy cake, but because the people around me were ready to hear the real me.
I turned to Emily:
Thank you.
She smiled with her eyes.
Inside, a calm settledno euphoria, no forced cheer, just the comfort of a right evening in the right place with the right people. Outside, the damp city kept on living its own life; inside, warmth and light held sway.
I rose, walked to the window, and watched the puddles mirror the street lamps. The rain fell slowly, as if exhausted from a days battle with November. I thought of that childhood miracle: it was always a simple act of hands we loved.
That night I fell asleep easily, without the urge to rush past my birthday.
