The hallway of the old council flat stretched like a winding intestine, its walls draped in faded floral wallpaper and the floor creaked beneath tired oak boards laid down in the seventies. A lingering scent of boiled cabbage mingled with an imagined cat perfume, though no cat had ever prowled flat number seven.
Eleanor Whitfield lingered at the door. She fidgeted with the ancient latch, peered through the peephole for a long moment, then finally swung it inward.
Finally! she cried, pulling her daughter into a tight embrace. I thought youd never come. Come in quickly, I have a cake in the oven.
Emily Harper shifted uneasily from foot to foot, clutching a bright parcel.
Mum, I have barely any time. I popped in to wish you happy birthday and then I must dashTom is waiting in the car.
Eleanors smile snapped to disappointment.
How can you pop in? Ive set the table, baked a pie, and invited Mrs. Margaret Clarke from the fifth floor, and Aunt Valerie with her granddaughter. Were all waiting for your sixtyfiveyearold milestonethis isnt a joke.
Mum, Emily bit her lip, I told you on the phone. Today is my fatherinlaws seventieth birthday, a big restaurant celebration. Everyones coming, we cant miss it.
So I can skip my own birthday? Eleanor pressed her lips together. Am I worse than your fatherinlaw?
Emily felt the walls close in. I offered to move your party to tomorrow, do it at home with cake and gifts. You refusedonly today, thats it.
How could I move it? My birthday is today, not tomorrow! Eleanor flapped her hands. Mrs. Clarke is already on her way, the cake is in the oven. What will I tell them? That my daughter prefers strangers to her own mother?
The hall grew stifling. The aroma of the baking cake seemed to spin Emilys head, or perhaps it was the relentless weight of guilt that had followed her all her life.
Theyre not strangers, Mumtheyre my husbands family. We got the invitation a week ago, before you even thought of a party, Emily pleaded.
A week ago! And I was born when? Yesterday? Eleanor huffed. A mothers birthday should be remembered always, not waiting for an invitation.
Emily glanced at her watch. Tom had been waiting in the car for fifteen minutes. They were already late.
Mum, I cant argue now. Here, take the present, she said, handing over the parcel. Its the electric kettle you wanted, with a thermostat. And she dug an envelope from her bag, money for the coat you admired at The Snow Queen.
Eleanor let neither gift nor envelope slip into her hands.
I dont need your handouts, she snapped. I need my own daughters attention. What attention? You didnt even bring little Lucy to greet her own grandmother.
Lucy has a fever101°F, Emily sighed. I called this morning; the nanny stayed with her.
A nanny! Eleanor exploded. And a grandmother is useless? Do you think I cant manage my granddaughter?
Mum
A knock rang. At the doorway stood Mrs. Margaret Clarke, Eleanors peer from the fifth floor, dressed in a flamboyant dress, a cake balanced in her arms.
Eleanor, happy birthday, dear! she exclaimed, then winced at the tense faces. Oh, am I untimely?
Come in, Margaret! Eleanor brightened, gesturing dramatically. Meet my daughter, Emily. Shes just popped in to wish me and is already fleeing to more important people.
Margaret offered an embarrassed smile. Darling, the youth have their own lives. Dont hold them back.
Im not holding anyone! Eleanor stepped aside, creating an exit. Off you go, Emily, before your fatherinlaw gets offended. As for a mothershell survive; shes used to it.
Emily stood, clutching the parcel and envelope, unsure what to do. Her phone buzzed in her pocketTom was probably wondering where she had vanished.
Mum, please, Emily whispered. Lets not make a scene in front of strangers. Ill come back tomorrow with Lucy as soon as she feels better, and well celebrate properly, just the two of us.
Strangers? Eleanor raised an eyebrow. Margaret is closer than most relatives. She visits, asks after my health. Not like those who drop by once a month, shove a few pounds in my hand and are off. They think theyve paid their dues.
Margaret shifted from foot to foot, clearly regretting witnessing the family tableau.
Ill go to the kitchen, put the kettle on, she muttered, retreating into the flats depths.
Emily placed the parcel on the side table, the envelope beside it. I understand, Mum. Im sorry I cant stay. Happy birthday.
She pressed a quick kiss to Eleanors cheek and slipped out before another harsh word could land. The staircase hall reeked of damp and dust; Emily leaned against the wall, inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself.
The phone buzzed again. This time she answered.
Yes, Tom, Im coming down now.
Whats taking you so long? Toms voice sounded urgent. Were already twenty minutes late.
Just the usual, Emily replied shortly. Ill explain on the way.
She descended the rattling stairwell, stepped outside, and saw Toms Toyota parked, his fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel.
Hows it going? he asked as she buckled in.
I didnt wish Mum, Emily said, fastening her seatbelt. She called me not a daughter because Im going to my fatherinlaws party instead of staying.
Tom sighed. Another twentyfive minutes of regret? Maybe you should have stayed.
And what would that change? Emily leaned back, exhausted. Tomorrow shell find a new reason to be upsetmy gift was wrong, Lucy is noisy, Im rarely around. Its endless, Tom.
The engine roared, and they pulled away.
Remember last year? Emily began. I cancelled our seaside trip to throw Mum a party. I set the table, invited her friends, and she spent the whole evening complaining the cake was storebought, full of chemicals.
I remember, Tom said, turning onto the main road. You were miserable for a week after.
When Lucy was born, Emily continued, eyes staring out the window at memories rather than houses, instead of helping, she arrived and criticised everythinghow I fed, how I dressed, how I held her. Then she sulked because I barely asked her to watch Lucy.
Maybe we should see a therapist? Tom suggested, glancing at her. Together with your mum?
Emily gave a rueful smile. Shed sooner die than admit she has a problem. To her, a therapist is for the mad.
They arrived at the grand ballroom where Victor St. James, the seventyyearold patriarch, was welcoming guests. Dapper men and women streamed through glittering doors.
Were here, Tom said, parking. Try not to think about your mum tonight, okay? You know how your fatherinlaw has been waiting for us.
Emily nodded, rummaged a lipstick from her bag, and forced a smile onto her face. A celebration was a celebration; nobody should see her upset.
Inside, Victor, a tall silverhaired gentleman with a military bearing, greeted them at the entrance.
There you are, my latecomers! he boomed, embracing his son first, then Emily. You look wonderful!
Happy birthday, Dad, Emily kissed his cheek. Sorry were late, Mum held me up.
Victors expression grew solemn. How is she? Send my regards. The dates overlapping is awkward.
Yes, awkward, Emily agreed, trying to sound casual. Well celebrate with her another day.
And Lucy? Victor asked. Tom said shes unwell.
Just a fever, Emily nodded. Nothing serious, just a cold, so we left her at home.
Good sense, he said. Childrens health comes first. Please, have a seat; everyones already gathered.
The banquet hall buzzed with music, clinking glasses, and lively chatter. Victors son and Tom mingled, while Emily lingered at the edge, her thoughts drifting back to the creaking flat, the yellow wallpaper, and her mother likely complaining to Margaret about an ungrateful daughter.
During a lull, Tatiana Hughes, Toms mother, slipped into Emilys side, an elegant lady in a navy sheath.
Emily, you look glum today, she observed. Something wrong?
Nothing, really, Emily forced a smile. Just worrying about Lucy. The nanny called; her temperature wont drop.
I understand, Tatiana said gently. Kids get sick often; itll pass by morning.
She paused, then whispered, Tom told me about your mums birthday clash. I felt awkward.
Emily exhaled. What does it matter? A birthday is a birthday; you cant move it. My mum is just complicated.
I get it, Tatiana touched Emilys hand. My own mother was a tough nut. Whenever we visited, shed find something to criticizehow I cooked, how I parented, even how I dressed. I suffered for years.
How did you cope? Emily asked.
Nothing, Tatiana smiled sadly. I endured, kept quiet, and eventually learned I couldt change her, only my reaction. Acceptance, setting boundariesyour mum will never be a pictureperfect mother, but you can choose how to respond.
Emily reflected on the counsel, then confessed, I still feel sorry for her. Shes alone on her birthday, angry, upset.
She isnt alone, Tatiana replied. She has a friend. She chose to stay angry rather than accept. You have the right to your own life, your own choices.
A toast interrupted them; glasses rose, voices declared family values and the importance of kin. Emily mechanically smiled, yet the image of her mothers bitter, solitary face lingered. She slipped her phone out, texted the nanny: Hows Lucy? The reply arrived instantly: Sleeping. Temp 99.3°F. No worries.
She then messaged her mum: Happy birthday, Mum. I love you. Ill visit tomorrow with Lucy as soon as she feels better.
Silence followed. Then her phone chimed. Thanks for the wishes. The cake Margaret brought was terriblefull of chemicals. Yours would have been better. Love, Mum.
Emily couldnt help a small smile. It was the closest thing to reconciliation Eleanor could muster.
Whats good? Tom asked, noticing her grin.
Mum wrote, Emily showed him the message. Shes almost not angry.
Tom snorted. For your mum, thats practically a love confession.
The evening rolled on with speeches, dancing, and games. Emily began to relax, even enjoy herself. She realized the motherinlaws words held truth: you cant forever blame yourself for not meeting someone elses expectations, even when that someone is your own mother.
Later, they drove home late. The nanny called to say Lucy slept peacefully, her temperature almost normal.
Tomorrow morning well go to Grandmas, Emily said, peeking into the nursery and adjusting the blanket on the sleeping child. Well give her a real birthday.
Are you sure? Tom asked, loosening his tie. Maybe let her stay sulky a bit longer, so she appreciates when you show up.
No, Emily replied firmly. Shes my mum, flaws and all. I dont want resentment between us. Lifes too short for that.
The next dawn, Emily baked her mothers favorite honey cake, dressed Lucy in a pretty dress, and they set off for the family birthday. On the way she bought a bouquet of white chrysanthemumsher mums favourite flowers.
Eleanor opened the front door as if expecting them, wearing a fresh dress and her hair styled for the occasion.
Grandma! Lucy shrieked, flinging herself into Eleanors arms. Happy birthday! Look what we brought!
She handed over a clumsily wrapped box of beads shed selected at the shop.
Eleanors face blossomed. She lifted her greatgranddaughter onto her shoulders. Lucy! I thought you were ill!
Im fine now! the girl declared proudly. The doctor said Im a champ.
Emily placed the honey cake on the kitchen table and handed her mother the chrysanthemum bouquet.
Happy birthday, Mum.
They embraced, and Emily felt Eleanors arms pull her close, the old grievances melting like butter in a warm oven. For a moment, the tension vanished.
Come in quickly, Eleanor buzzed, bustling to the kettle. Teas ready, and Ive baked fresh scones. Yesterday Margaret brought that dreadful storebought cakefull of chemicals. We barely finished it.
Emily exchanged a glance with Lucy and winked. Everything felt ordinary now, and the irritation had softened into a gentle, warm smile. Mother was mother, with all her quirks and a complicated heart, and those fleeting moments together were worth every ounce of patience.
