15October2025 Manchester
The corridor in our old council flat feels like a narrow, winding gut. Yellowed floral wallpaper peels at the edges, and the creaky pine floorboardsoriginally laid in the 70sstill sigh under every step. The air always carries the scent of boiled cabbage and, oddly enough, of cats, even though the building has never housed a single feline.
Margaret Hughes finally opened the front door after fiddling with the lock for what seemed ages. She lingered at the peephole, eyeing me through the narrow slit before pulling the door wide.
Finally! she exclaimed, pulling me into a hug. I was scared youd forgotten. Come in quicklytheres a jam cake in the oven.
I shifted awkwardly, clutching the small parcel Id brought.
Mum, I only have a few minutes. Im just popping in to wish you happy birthday and then Ill be back. Toms waiting in the car.
Margarets smile faded instantly, replaced by a thin line of disappointment.
How can you pop in? she snapped. Ive set the table, baked a cake, and invited Helen from the fifth floor, and Aunt Valerie with her granddaughter. Were all waiting for your 65ththis isnt a joke.
Mum, I said, biting my lip, I told you on the phone. My fatherinlaw is turning seventy today. Its a big gala at the Riverside Restaurantfamily, friends, colleagues. We cant miss it.
So, I can skip my own birthday? Margarets lips curled sharply. Am I less important than your fatherinlaw?
I felt the walls close in. The aroma of the cake wafted from the kitchen, making my head spinnot from the smell but from the relentless guilt that has followed me all my life.
Theyre not strangers, Mum, I tried to explain. Theyre my husbands family. We got the invitation a week ago, long before you decided to throw this party.
A week ago? And when was I born? Yesterday? she snapped, her voice hard. A mothers birthday should be remembered forever, not after a RSVP.
I glanced at my watch. Tom had been waiting in the car for fifteen minutes; we were already late.
Look, I cant argue now, I said, handing her the parcel. Its the electric kettle you asked for, with temperature control. And heres the envelope£200 for the coat you liked at The Snow Queen boutique.
She turned the kettle over in her hands, then set it aside, refusing both items.
I dont need your handouts, she said coldly. I need the attention of my own daughter. Yet youve not even brought Lucys grandmother, Mabel, to celebrate with us.
Lucys running a fever38.5°C, I replied, weary. I called this morning; the babysitter is looking after her.
A babysitter! Margaret flared. And you think Im not capable of caring for my own granddaughter?
Before I could answer, the doorbell rang. Helen, the neighbour from the fifth floor, stood there in a bright dress, a neatly frosted cake in her hands.
Happy birthday, dear Margaret! she chirped, then paused, noticing the tension between us. Am I too early?
Come in, Helen! Margaret forced a smile, gesturing at me. Meet my daughter, Emily. Shes just popped in to say hello before dashing off to more important matters.
Helen forced a laugh. Dont worry, Margaret. Young people have their own lives. Dont hold them back.
Yes, Im not holding her! Margaret stepped aside, opening a clear path to the hallway. Go, Emily, go. Let your fatherinlaw have his day. Mum will surviveshes used to it.
I stood there, clutching the kettle and the envelope, unsure what to do. My phone buzzedit had to be Tom checking where I was.
Mum, please, I whispered, lets not make a scene in front of the neighbours. Ill come back tomorrow with Lucy once shes better, and well have a proper celebration together.
Neighbours? Margaret raised an eyebrow. Helen is closer than many relatives. She actually visits, asks about my health. Some people only pop in once a month, drop a few pounds, and are satisfied. Thats not what I need.
Helen shifted uncomfortably, then muttered, Ill go put the kettle on.
I placed the kettle and the envelope on the side table, took a deep breath, and kissed Margaret on the cheek. Im sorry I cant stay, Mum. Happy birthday.
She didnt get a chance to answer before I was out the door, the stale lift shaft echoing my steps. The stairwell smelled of damp and dust. I leaned against the landing, inhaled sharply, and tried to steady myself.
The phone buzzed again. I answered.
Tom, Im on my way down.
Whats taking you so long? his voice sounded impatient. Were already twenty minutes late.
Everythings fine, I said briefly. Ill explain later.
I descended the cracked stairs, stepped outside, and spotted Toms silver Corolla idling by the pavement. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
Hows it going? he asked as I buckled in.
I didnt wish Mum, I admitted, fastening my seatbelt. She made it clear I should be at your fathers birthday instead. She says Im less important.
Again? Tom sighed. Maybe you should have stayed.
What would that change? I muttered, leaning back. Tomorrow shell find another reason to be upsetmaybe the kettle isnt the right model, or Lucys too noisy, or Im rarely around. Its an endless loop, Tom.
He started the engine, and we pulled away.
Remember last year? I said. I cancelled our seaside trip to throw you a birthday tea party. I set the table, invited your friends. You spent the whole evening complaining the cake was storebought, full of chemicals, and that I didnt care about your health.
Yes, I recall, Tom replied, turning onto the main road. You were miserable for a week after that.
And when Lucy was born, I continued, watching the city blur past, instead of helping, youd critique everythinghow I fed her, how I dressed her, how I held her. Then youd be angry when I asked you to look after her for a few hours.
Tom glanced at me. Maybe we should see a counsellor? Perhaps with your mum too?
I chuckled hollowly. Shed rather die than admit she has a problem. To her, a therapist is something for the crazy.
We arrived at the Riverside Restaurant, the venue for George Whitakers 70th birthday. Guests in smart attire streamed through the glittering doors.
Here we are, Tom said, pulling the car into the curb. Try not to think about Mum tonight, alright? Dads been looking forward to this for months.
I nodded, pulling a compact lipstick from my bag, applying a quick gloss. A celebration is a celebration; I couldnt let my mothers bitterness ruin the evening.
Inside, the hall buzzed with laughter. George, a tall silverhaired gentleman with a military bearing, greeted us at the entrance.
Finally, my tardy guests! he exclaimed, hugging his son first, then me. Emily, you look wonderful!
Happy birthday, Dad, I said, planting a kiss on his cheek. Sorry were lateMum held me up.
His expression grew serious. How is she? Send her my best. Its a strange coincidence with the dates.
Yes, a bit odd, I replied, trying to sound casual. Well celebrate with her another day.
And Lucy? George asked. Tom mentioned shes under the weather.
Just a slight fever, I said. Nothing serious, we kept her at home just in case.
Good, he nodded. A childs health comes first. Lets get to our seats.
The banquet hall thrummed with music, clinking glasses, and waiting staff weaving through tables. Tom slipped into conversation, while I sat mostly silent, my mind drifting back to the shabby flat with its yellowed walls, where Margaret was probably still nursing a wound of resentment against Helen.
During a lull, Eleanor ParkerToms motherjoined us, her sleek navy dress immaculate.
Emily, you look a little down, she observed, her voice gentle. Everything alright?
Its just Lucys fever, I replied, forcing a smile. The babysitter called, her temperature isnt dropping.
I understand, Eleanor said. Kids get sick often; theyll be fine by morning.
She paused, then lowered her voice. Tom told me about your mums birthday clash. I felt a bit awkward. A birthday is a birthdayyou cant move it. But I know your mum can be difficult.
I get it, I sighed. Shes a tough nut.
Eleanor placed a hand on my arm. My mother was the same. Every visit, shed find something to criticizehow I kept the house, how I looked after my children, even how I dressed. I suffered in silence for years, until I realised I couldnt change her. I could only change how I responded.
How? I asked, curious.
Stop expecting what she cant give, she said simply. Accept her as she is, flaws and all, and set your own boundaries. Shell never be the perfect mother from a storybook, but you decide how much her words affect you.
Her words lingered as a new toast rose. Glasses clinked; a cousin spoke about family values and the importance of kinship. I forced a smile, nodding, while the image of Margaretangry, solitary, nursing a wounded prideflashed behind my eyes.
I slipped my phone out and texted the babysitter: Hows Lucy? A quick reply: Sleeping. Temp 37.4°C. No worries.
Then I typed a message to my mother: Happy birthday, Mum. I love you. Ill be back tomorrow with Lucy as soon as she feels better. I hit send and waited. After a moment, her reply pinged: Thanks for the wishes. The cake from Helen was terriblefull of chemicals. Yours would have been better. Love, Mum.
Tom noticed the faint smile on my face. Whats that? he asked.
Mum wrote back, I showed him the screen. Shes not completely angry.
He chuckled, For your mum, thats practically a love declaration.
The evening went ontoast after toast, dancing, a few silly games. Gradually I relaxed, even beginning to enjoy the night. Eleanors advice had struck a chord: I couldnt keep blaming myself for failing someones impossible expectations, even if that someone was my own mother.
We returned home late. The babysitter called to say Lucy was sleeping soundly, her temperature almost normal.
Tomorrow morning well visit Grandma, I told Tom, adjusting the blanket over Lucys tiny shoulders. Well give her a proper birthday.
Are you sure? he asked, removing his tie. Maybe she needs a few more days to stew, so she appreciates us more when we finally come.
No, I answered firmly. Shes my mother, with all her flaws. I dont want a rift between us. Lifes too short for that.
The next day I baked her favourite honey cake, dressed Lucy in a pretty dress, and we set off for Margarets house, a bouquet of white chrysanthemums in handher favourite flowers.
Margaret opened the door almost immediately, as if expecting us. She wore a fresh dress, her hair neatly styled for the occasion.
Grandma! Lucy shrieked, flinging herself into Margarets arms. Happy birthday! Look what weve brought you!
She handed over a clumsily wrapped box of beads shed picked out herself.
Margarets face lit up. Lucy! I thought you were still ill.
Im fine now, the little girl declared proudly. Doctor said Im a champion.
I placed the honey cake on the side table and handed Margaret the chrysanthemum bouquet.
Happy birthday, Mum, I said, pulling her into a hug. She held me tightly, and for a moment the old resentment seemed to dissolve.
Come in quickly, she called, bustling to the kitchen. Teas ready, and Ive baked fresh scones. Yesterday Helens storebought cake was dreadfulfull of chemicals. We barely finished it.
Lucy and I exchanged a knowing glance and smiled. Mother is mother, with all her quirks and a complicated nature. Those moments we share are fleeting, and I must cherish each one.
Lesson: You cannot reshape another persons character, but you can choose how much weight to give their words. Accepting a loved ones imperfections while protecting your own peace is the only way to keep the family ties from fraying.
