The hallway of the old council flat in Manchester was as narrow as a mousehole, the yellowed floral wallpaper peeling at the corners and the creaky parquet beneath my feet still the same boards laid decades ago. The air always carried the scent of boiled cabbage and a faint hint of cats, though no cat had ever lived in number seven.
Eleanor Whitaker hesitated at the door. She wrestled with the lock, then stared through the peephole for a long minute before finally pulling it open.
Finally! she exclaimed, pulling me into a hug. I thought youd never come. Come straight in, the cake is in the oven.
I shifted from foot to foot, a parcel clutched in my hands.
Mum, Ive got barely any time. I sprinted over just to wish you happy birthday and then I have to dash back. Harrys waiting in the car.
Eleanors face fell; joy turned to disappointment.
How can you say sprinted over? Ive set the table, baked the whole lot. Mabel from the floor above will be here, Victoria with her granddaughter. Were waiting for you. Sixtyfive is no small number.
Mum, I bit my lip, I told you on the phone. Today is my fatherinlaws seventieth birthday, a big celebration at the restaurant. All the relatives, friends, colleagues are there. We cant miss it.
So I can skip my own birthday? Eleanor pressed her lips together. Am I worse than your fatherinlaw?
Mum, what are you saying? I felt cornered. I offered to move your party to tomorrow, keep it familyonly with cake and presents. You refusedtoday only, thats it.
How can I move it? My birthday is today, not tomorrow! Eleanor flailed her arms. Mabels already planning, the cake is baked. What shall I tell them? That my daughter prefers strangers to her own mother?
The hallway grew stifling. The aroma from the kitchen swirled, making my head spinnot from the scent, but from the relentless guilt that has haunted me all my life.
Theyre not strangers, Mum. Theyre my husbands family. We got the invitation a week ago, before you even thought of a party.
A week ago! And you think I was born yesterday? Eleanor snapped. A mothers birthday is to be remembered forever, not waiting for an invitation.
I glanced at my watch. Harry had been in the car for fifteen minutes. We were late.
Mum, I really cant argue now. Here, the gift, I handed her the bag. Its the electric kettle you wanted, with a thermostat. And I pulled an envelope from my purse, the money for the new coat you picked out at The Snow Queen.
Eleanor turned away from both.
I dont need your handouts, she snapped. I need the attention of my own daughter. What attention? You didnt even bring little Martha to greet her own grandmother.
Marthas running a fever, thirtyeight point five, I replied wearily. I told you this morning. The nanny stayed with her.
A nanny! Eleanor roared. So a grandmother isnt good enough? You think I cant look after my granddaughter?
Mum, thats not
A knock at the door announced Mabel Clarke, the neighbour from the fifth floor, Eleanors agemate, dressed in a bright dress, a cake in her arms.
Eleanor, happy birthday, dear! she cried, then halted, noticing the strained faces. Oh, am I late?
Come in, Mabel! Right on time. Meet my daughter, Olivia. She popped in for a minute to wish you and is already off to more important people.
Mabel smiled awkwardly. Dont hold her, Eleanor. Young people have their own lives. Let her go.
Im not holding her! Eleanor stepped aside, creating a clear exit. Off you go, Olivia, so your fatherinlaw doesnt get offended. Mum? Mum will survive; shes used to it.
I stood there, gift and envelope clenched, unsure what to do. My phone buzzed in my pocketsurely Harry was wondering where I was.
Mum, please, I whispered, lets not make a scene in front of strangers. Ill come back tomorrow with Martha when she feels better, and well celebrate properly, just the two of us.
Strangers? Eleanor raised an eyebrow. Mabel is nearer than any other relative. She visits, asks after my health. Some only drop by once a month, shove a few pounds in, and are off. Thats not how I see family.
Mabel shifted from foot to foot, clearly regretting witnessing the showdown.
Ill go to the kitchen and set the kettle, she muttered, retreating.
I placed the gift on the side table, the envelope beside it. I understand, Mum. Im sorry I cant stay. Happy birthday.
I kissed her cheek and slipped out before she could add another barb. The stairwell smelled of damp and dust. I leaned against the wall, inhaling deeply to steady my nerves.
The phone buzzed again. I answered.
Yes, Harry, Im coming down.
Whats taking you so long? his voice sounded anxious. Were already twenty minutes late.
Just the usual, I replied shortly. Ill be there soon.
I descended the cracked staircase and stepped out onto the street. Harrys grey Toyota waited, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
Hows it going? he asked as I buckled up.
Didnt wish Mum, I said, tightening my seatbelt. She told me Im not her daughter because Im going to your fathers party instead of staying with her.
He sighed. Maybe you should have stayed.
And what would that change? I retorted, leaning back. Tomorrow shed find another excusemy gift wasnt right, Marthas too noisy, I visit too rarely. Its a neverending loop, Harry.
He started the engine and we pulled away.
Remember last year? I began. I cancelled our seaside holiday to throw her a party. I set the table, invited her friends. She spent the whole evening sulking because the cake was bought, not homemade. She claimed I didnt care about her health because storebought cake is full of chemicals.
I remember, Harry said, turning onto the main road. You were miserable for a week after.
When Martha was born, I continued, watching the passing houses, instead of helping, she kept critiquing mehow I fed her, how I dressed her, how I held her. Then shed be upset that I rarely asked the nanny to look after my own child.
Listen, Harry glanced at me, maybe we should see a counsellor? With your mum?
I gave a wry smile. Shed rather die than admit she has a problem with me. To her, a counsellor is for lunatics.
The restaurant where Victor Whitakers seventieth birthday was being celebrated glimmered with lights and smiling faces as we turned the corner.
Were here, Harry said, parking. Try not to think about Mum tonight, alright? You know how proud your father was to have us.
I nodded, pulling out a lipstick and fixing my makeup. A celebration is a celebration; I couldnt let my disappointment show.
Inside, the ballroom buzzed. Victor Whitaker, a tall silverhaired gentleman with a military bearing, greeted us at the entrance.
Ah, my late arrivals! he shouted, hugging his son first, then me. Olivia, you look splendid!
Happy birthday, Dad, I kissed my fatherinlaw on the cheek. Sorry were late, I was held up at Mums.
His expression grew serious. How is she? Send her my regards. The coincidence of the dates is awkward, I know.
It is, I agreed, trying to sound casual. Well have a proper celebration with her tomorrow.
And little Martha? Victor asked. Harry mentioned shes under the weather.
Just a fever, I said. Nothing serious, a common cold. We left her at home just in case.
Right, he nodded. A childs health comes first. Please, have a seat; everyones already gathered.
The banquet hall filled with music, clinking glasses, and lively chatter. Harry mingled, while I merely played the part of a guest, my thoughts drifting back to the dim hallway with its yellowed wallpaper, where Mum was probably still complaining to Mabel about an ungrateful daughter.
During a lull, Tessa Middleton, Harrys mother, an elegant lady in a navy dress, slipped onto the seat beside me.
Olivia, you look a bit down today, she observed. Everything alright?
No, its fine, I forced a smile. Im just worried about Martha. The nanny called; her temperature wont drop.
I understand, Tessa said. Children get sick often; itll pass by morning, youll see.
She paused, then whispered, Harry told me about your mums birthday clash. It must be uncomfortable for you.
I exhaled. What does that have to do with anything? A birthday is a birthdayyou cant move it. My mum is just complicated.
I get it, Tessa replied, gently touching my hand. My own mother was difficult. Whenever we visited, shed find something to criticizemy cooking, my parenting, my attire. I endured for years, then realised I could not change her, only my reaction to her.
How do you do that? I asked.
Stop expecting what she cant give, she said simply. Accept her as she is, flaws and all, and set your own boundaries. Your mum will never be the pictureperfect mother from a novel; shell demand, feel hurt, manipulate. Thats her choice. Yours is how you respond.
Her words rang true, yet my heart hesitated.
I still feel sorry for her, I admitted. Shes alone on her birthday, upset, feeling abandoned.
Shes not alone, Tessa reminded me. She has a friend. She chose to be upset, but you have the right to live your own life, make your own choices.
A toast interrupted us, glasses raised, voices praising family values. I smiled mechanically, nodding, but the image of my mothers angry, solitary face lingered. When we sat again, I slipped a quick text to the nanny: Hows Martha?
Sleeping, temperature 37.4°C. No worries, came the reply.
I sent another message to my mum: Happy birthday, Mum. I love you. Ill be back tomorrow with Martha as soon as she feels better.
The silence stretched. I began to think she was ignoring me until my phone chimed. Thanks for the wishes. Zabels storebought cake was horrible, full of chemicals. Yours would have been better. Love, Mum.
A faint smile touched my lips. That was as close to reconciliation as Eleanor Whitaker ever managed.
Whats that, good news? Harry asked, noticing my grin.
My mum texted, I showed him the screen. Shes almost not angry.
He snorted. For your mum thats practically a love letter.
The evening went ontoasts, dancing, a few silly games. Gradually I relaxed, even began to enjoy the night. Tessas advice settled in: I could not shoulder all her expectations forever.
We drove home late. The nanny called to say Martha was sleeping soundly, her temperature almost normal.
Tomorrow morning well go to Grandmas, I told Harry, smoothing the blanket over the childs tiny shoulders. Well give her a proper birthday.
Are you sure? he asked, untying his tie. Maybe give her a few more days to stew in her resentment, so she appreciates us more.
No, I answered firmly. Shes my mother, flaws and all. I dont want any lingering bitterness. Lifes too short for that.
The next dawn I baked her favourite honey cake, dressed Martha in a pretty dress, and we set off for the celebration. On the way I bought a bunch of white chrysanthemumsMums favourite flowers.
Eleanor opened the front door instantly, as if expecting us, dressed in a fresh dress with her hair neatly styled.
Grandma! Martha shouted, flinging herself around Eleanors neck. Happy birthday! Look what we brought!
She handed over a clumsily wrapped box of beads shed picked herself from a shop.
Eleanors face lit up, scooping the little girl into her arms. Martha! I thought you were ill!
Im fine now! the girl declared proudly. The doctor said Im brave.
I placed the cake on the side table and handed my mother the bouquet.
Happy birthday, Mum, I whispered, embracing her. She pressed me close, and for a moment I felt the old sting dissolve.
Come in quickly, Eleanor buzzed, already moving toward the kitchen. Teas ready, and Ive made fresh scones. Yesterday Zabel brought that horrid store cakefull of chemicals. We barely finished it.
Martha and I exchanged a glance and a knowing wink. Everything seemed ordinary, and the irritation of years past had softened into a warm smile. A mother is a mother, with all her quirks and a tangled heart, and every shared moment now felt precious, because such moments are fleeting.
