15October2025
The hall in my old council flat is as narrow and endless as a wormhole. The walls are papered in faded daisyprint, and the floor creaks beneath the cheap parquet that was fitted when the building was first handed over by the council. The smell of boiled cabbage mingles with a faint musky hint of cats, even though the flat has never housed a single feline.
Eleanor Smith finally turned the key. She fumbled with the lock for ages, then stared through the peephole a moment longer before pulling the door open.
Finally! she exclaimed, wrapping me in a tight hug. I thought youd stood you up. Come in quickly, the cake is in the oven.
I shuffled my feet, clutching a brown paper bag.
Mum, Ive got barely any time. I popped in to wish you happy birthday and then I must dashVictors waiting in the car.
Eleanors face fell, the smile draining away.
How can you pop in? Ive set the table, Ive baked the cake. Mrs. Wilson from the flat above is due, and Aunt Valerie will be here with her granddaughter. Were waiting for you. A sixtyfiveyear birthday isnt a joke.
Mum, I bit my lip, I told you on the phone that today is my fatherinlaws seventieth birthday. Hes having a big celebration at the hotel, all the family, friends, colleagues. We simply cant miss it.
So Im not invited to my own birthday? Eleanor pressed her lips together. Am I worse than your fatherinlaw?
My mother, stop it, I felt cornered, I suggested moving your party to tomorrow, doing something simple at home with cake and presents. You stubbornly said today only.
How can I move it? My birthdate is today, not tomorrow! she flailed. Mrs. Wilson is already here, the cake is baked. What will I tell them? That my daughter prefers a strangers party to her own mothers?
The hallway grew stifling. The scent of the cake wafting from the kitchen made my head spinnot the smell, but the relentless guilt that has haunted me forever.
Theyre not strangers, Mum. Theyre my husbands family. We got the invitation a week ago, before you even thought of arranging anything.
A week ago! And I was born when? Eleanor snapped. A mothers birthday should be remembered always, not after an RSVP.
I glanced at my watch. Victor had been waiting for fifteen minutes; we were already late.
Mum, I really cant argue now. Here, the gift, I slipped the bag into her hands. Its the electric kettle you wanted, with a thermostat. And I fished an envelope from my pursethe money for the coat you liked at Cozy Corner.
She turned both items away.
I dont need your handouts, she snapped. I need the attention of my own daughter. What attention? You didnt even bring little Martha to salute her own grandmother.
Marthas got a fever38.5°C, I said wearily. I called this morning; the babysitter is with her.
A babysitter! And Im not good enough for my own granddaughter? You think I cant look after her?
Before I could answer, the doorbell rang. Mrs. Wilson, my neighbour, stood on the landing in a bright dress, a storebought cake in her hands.
Eleanor, happy birthday, love! she chirped, then caught the tension on our faces. Oh dear, am I early?
Come in, Wilson! Eleanor brightened, waving us both forward. Perfect timing. Meet my daughterOlivia. Shes just popped in to wish me happy birthday and is off to more important people.
Mrs. Wilson forced a smile. Dont hold her back, Eleanor. Young folk have lives of their own.
Im not holding anyone! Eleanor stepped aside dramatically, opening a path to the stairwell. Go, Olivia, go. Let the fatherinlaw be pleased. Mum will surviveshes used to it.
I stood, bag and envelope heavy in my hands, unsure what to do. My phone buzzed; Victor was probably wondering where Id vanished.
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. Mrs. Wilson is closer than any other relative. She visits, asks after my health. Some people only pop in for a few minutes, drop some cash and are satisfied. Thats not what I need.
Mrs. Wilson shifted uneasily, clearly wishing she werent witnessing our clash.
Ill go to the kitchen and set the kettle up, she muttered, retreating.
I placed the gift and envelope on the side table, took a deep breath, and kissed Eleanor on the cheek. I slipped out before she could add another barb. The stairwell smelled of damp and dust; I leaned against the wall and exhaled slowly.
The phone buzzed again. I answered.
Yes, love, Im coming down.
Whats taking you so long? Victors voice was edged with worry. Were already twenty minutes late.
Everythings as usual, I replied shortly. Ill explain.
I descended the cracked stairs, stepped outside, and saw Victors battered Ford Focus idling at the foot of the building. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
Hows it going? he asked as I buckled up.
I didnt wish Mum happy birthday, I said, fastening my seatbelt. She told me Im not her daughter because Im going to Victors fathers party instead of staying with her.
He sighed. Maybe you should have stayed.
And what would that have changed? I tossed back, exhausted. Tomorrow shed find a new reason to be hurtmy gift not being right, Martha being too noisy, me not visiting enough. It never ends, Victor.
He started the engine and we pulled away.
Remember last year? I began. I cancelled our seaside break to throw Mum a party. I set the table, invited her friends. She spent the whole evening sulking because the cake was bought, not homemade, accusing me of caring only about cheap sugar and chemicals.
I remember, Victor said, turning onto the main road. You were upset for a week.
My own mother, I said, watching the passing houses, when she was born, she never helped with the baby. Instead she criticised everythinghow I fed her, how I dressed herthen got angry when I rarely asked her to look after Martha.
Victor glanced at me. Maybe we should see a counsellor? With your mum?
I let out a bitter laugh. Shed rather die than admit she has a problem. To her, a therapist is for lunatics.
We arrived at the Grand Oak Hotel, where the banquet for Victors father, Arthur Hartley, was already in full swing. Dressed guests streamed through gilded doors, laughter spilling into the foyer.
Finally! Victor announced, parking the car. Try not to think about your mum tonight, alright? You know how much your fatherinlaw looks forward to this.
I nodded, rummaging for lipstick. I needed to plaster a smile on my face; a birthday is still a birthday, and no one should see me upset.
Inside, the ballroom glittered. Arthur, a tall, silvergrey gentleman with a military bearing, greeted us at the entrance.
There you are, my late arrivals! he boomed, hugging his son and then me. Olivia, you look splendid.
Happy birthday, Dad, I whispered, planting a kiss on his cheek. Sorry were lateI was held up at my mums place.
His expression sobered. How is she? Send her my best wishes. The coincidence of dates is unfortunate, I suppose.
Yes, quite awkward, I managed, trying to sound casual. Well celebrate with her another day.
And Martha? Victor had mentioned earlier that our little one was under the weather.
A fever, I admitted. Just a mild cold, but we kept her home just in case.
Good, Arthur said. A childs health comes first. Come, the table is set.
The room buzzed with chatter, clinking glasses, and the soft strains of a live band. Victor mingled effortlessly; I lingered on the edge, my thoughts drifting back to the council flat, to the stale scent of the cake, to Eleanor probably griping to Mrs. Wilson about a thankless daughter.
During a lull, my motherinlaw, Elaine Hartley, slipped into the seat beside me. She wore an elegant navy dress, her hair coiled in a neat chignon.
Olivia, you look rather down today, she observed. Is something bothering you?
I forced a smile. Nothing, really. Im just worried about Martha. The nanny calledher temperature hasnt dropped.
Children catch colds all the time, Elaine said gently. Itll pass by morning.
She paused, then lowered her voice. Victor told me about your mums birthday clash. I feel awkward about it.
I exhaled. Birthdays dont move, Elaine. My mum is complicated.
I understand, she said, touching my hand. My own mother was difficult too. Every visit, shed find something to criticizemy housekeeping, my parenting, even the way I dressed. I endured it for years until I realised I couldnt change her, only my reaction to her.
How did you cope? I asked, genuinely curious.
By setting boundaries, she replied calmly. Accepting people as they are, flaws and all, and not letting their behaviour dictate my peace. Its not easy, but its necessary.
Her words hit home. It sounds simple when you say it.
Its a practice, she said. Your mother will never be the perfect, picturebook mum. Shell complain, feel hurt, perhaps manipulate. Thats her choice. Yours is how you respond.
I thought of Eleanors sharp words, her stubbornness, her loneliness on her own birthday. I still feel sorry for her, I admitted. Shes alone, upset on her special day.
She isnt truly alone, Elaine reminded me. She has a neighbour, a friend. She chooses to stay angry instead of letting go. But you also have a rightto live your life, to make your own choices.
A toast interrupted us; glasses rose, voices rose in unison, praising family ties and shared values. I smiled mechanically, nodding, while the image of my mothers scowling face played behind my eyes. When the crowd sat down again, I slipped my phone out and texted the nanny: Hows Martha?
Sleeping, temp 37.4°C. No worries, came the quick reply.
I then drafted a message to my mum: Happy birthday, Mum. I love you. Ill be back tomorrow with Martha as soon as she feels better. I waited, heart thudding, for a reply. After a few moments the phone chimed.
Thanks for the wishes. The cake from Mrs. Wilson was terriblefull of chemicals. Yours would have been better. Love, Mum.
A small smile tugged at my lips. It was the closest thing to a truce Eleanor could muster.
Victor noticed my grin. Whats that?
Mum wrote, I showed him the text. Shes not entirely angry.
He snorted. For your mum, thats practically a love letter.
The evening went ontoast after toast, a few dances, some lighthearted games. Gradually I relaxed, even began to enjoy myself. Elaines counsel echoed in my head: I couldnt keep blaming myself for failing an impossible standard. Whether it was my own mother or anyone else, I could only control my own response.
We left the hotel late, the night air crisp. The nanny later called to say Martha had slept soundly and her fever had almost normalised.
Tomorrow morning well go to your mums house, I told Victor, pausing at the doorway of our flat and smoothing the blanket over Marthas small shoulders. Well give her a proper celebration.
You sure? he asked, loosening his tie. Maybe let her stew a bit longer, so she appreciates us more.
No, I said firmly. Shes my mum, quirks and all. I dont want resentment lingering between us. Lifes too short for that.
The next morning I baked a honey cake, Marthas favourite, and dressed her in a pretty blue dress. On the way to Eleanors house I bought a bouquet of white chrysanthemumsher favourite flowers.
When we arrived, Eleanor opened the door as if shed been waiting on the step. She wore a fresh dress, hair done up for the occasion.
Grandma! Martha shrieked, throwing her arms around Eleanor. Happy birthday! Look what we got you!
She handed over a clumsily wrapped box of beads shed picked herself.
Eleanors face softened, she lifted her greatgranddaughter onto her lap.
Martha, I thought you were still ill!
Im fine now! the little girl declared proudly. The doctor says Im a champion.
I set the honey cake on the side table and handed Eleanor the bouquet.
Happy birthday, Mum, I whispered, embracing her.
She held me close, and for a moment the old bitterness seemed to melt away. She laughed, Come in quickly, love. Teas ready and the scones are fresh. Yesterday Zinasorry, Mrs. Wilsonbrought that awful storebought cake, full of chemicals. We barely finished it.
Martha giggled, and I exchanged a knowing glance with her. Everything felt ordinary, but the ordinary now carried a warm glow. Mum may be stubborn, may hold grudges, but she is still my mother, and those moments we share are precious because they are fleeting.
Tell me about the night out, Eleanor said, leading us to the kitchen. Was the hotel as grand as you say?
It was dazzling, I replied, slipping my arm around her shoulders. But your homemade scones are far better than any fivestar dessert.
She smiled, eyes bright. Good, because those are the ones Ill always remember.
