I still recall the narrow, tunnellike hallway of the old council flat where I grew up, its walls dressed in faded rosepatterned wallpaper and its floorboards that sighed with each step, a relic from the forties. The lingering scent of boiled cabbage mixed with the faint musk of cats always hung in the air, though a cat had never lived in flat7.
Maggie Henderson hesitated at the door. First she wrestled with the stubborn lock, then she peered through the peephole, before finally pulling the heavy wooden door open.
Finally! she cried, pulling me into a tight embrace. I thought you wouldnt come. Come in quickly, the cake is in the oven.
I shifted uneasily from foot to foot, a modest parcel clutched in my hands.
Mum, I have barely any time. Ive just popped in to wish you happy birthday and will be off again straightaway. James is waiting for me in the car.
Maggie’s face fell as the smile drained away, replaced by a sharp disappointment.
How can you pop in? she snapped. Ive already set the table, prepared everything. Mrs. Brown from the flat above is due, and Aunt Valerie will bring her granddaughter. Were waiting for you. A sixtyfiveyearold birthday isnt a joke.
Mum, I whispered, biting my lip, I told you on the phone that today is my fatherinlaws seventieth birthday, a big celebration at the Savoy. All the family, friends, colleagues will be there. We cant possibly skip it.
And you think its fine to miss my birthday? Maggies lips curled into a thin line. Am I less important than your fatherinlaw?
I felt the walls closing in, a sudden sense of being cornered. I suggested moving your party to tomorrow, make it a cosy family affair with cake and gifts, but you clung to today as the only day.
The date is today, not tomorrow! Maggie flailed her arms. Mrs. Browns already on her way, and the cake is already baked. What shall I tell them? That my own daughter prefers strangers to her own mother?
The hallway grew stifling. The sweet aroma drifting from the kitchen made my head spin, as did the relentless guilt that has haunted me for years.
Theyre not strangers, Mum, I said. Theyre my husbands family. We received the invitation a week ago, long before you decided to throw a party.
A week ago! And you think I was born yesterday? Maggie huffed, eyes flashing. A mothers birthday should be remembered forever, not waited for an invitation.
I glanced at my watch; James had been waiting in the car for fifteen minutes.
Mum, I really cant argue now. Here, take the present, I handed her the parcel. Its the electric kettle you asked for, with a temperature regulator. And this, I added, pulling an envelope from my bag, is the money for the new coat you liked at The Snow Queen.
Maggie turned her back, refusing both.
I dont need your handouts, she snapped. I want the attention of my own daughter. What attention? You didnt even bring little Martha to congratulate her own grandmother.
Marthas running a fever, thirtyeight point five, I replied wearily. I called you this morning; the babysitter stayed with her.
Babysitter! Maggie wailed. And Im not good enough for a granddaughter?
Before I could answer, a knock announced the arrival of Mrs. Brown, my neighbour from the floor above, dressed in a smart dress, a cake balanced in her arms.
Happy birthday, dear! she exclaimed, then halted, noticing the tense faces. Oh dear, am I early?
Come in, Brown! Maggie brightened, stepping aside. Just in time. Meet my daughter, Poppy. She popped in for a minute to wish me happy birthday and is already off to more important people.
Mrs. Brown managed a polite smile. Dont hold her, Maggie. Young folk have their own lives.
Im not holding her! Maggie retorted, moving deliberately to block the exit. Off you go, Poppy, before your fatherinlaw gets cross. As for a mothershell survive; shes used to it.
I stood there, the parcel and envelope clenched, unsure what to do. My phone buzzed in my pocketJames was probably wondering where I was.
Mum, please, I whispered, lets not make a scene in front of strangers. Ill come back tomorrow with Martha when shes better, and well celebrate properly, just the two of us.
Strangers? Maggie arched an eyebrow. Mrs. Brown visits, asks after my health. Some people only drop by once a month, shove a few pounds in and are satisfied. Shes better than that.
Mrs. Brown shifted from foot to foot, evidently uneasy. Ill go make the kettle, she muttered, retreating toward the kitchen.
Alright, I said firmly, placing the gifts on the side table and sliding the envelope beside them. 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, inhaled deeply, and steadied myself.
The phone buzzed again; I answered.
Yes, James, Im coming down.
Whats taking you so long? his voice sounded anxious. Were already twenty minutes late.
Nothing unusual, Ill explain shortly.
I descended the cracked concrete steps and emerged onto the street. Jamess battered Toyota sat idling, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
Hows it going? he asked as I buckled in.
Didnt get to wish Mum happy birthday, I said, fastening my seatbelt. She said Im not her daughter if I go to your fatherinlaws party instead of staying with her.
James sighed. Another twentyfive minutes, maybe you should have stayed.
What would that change? I muttered, leaning back. Shed find another excuse tomorrow. The gift isnt right, the babys too noisy, I visit too rarely. Its endless.
He started the engine, and we pulled away.
Remember last year? I began, I cancelled our seaside trip to throw her a party. I set the table, invited her friends, and she spent the whole evening complaining the cake was bought, not homemade, saying I didnt care about her health because storebought cakes are full of chemicals.
I recall, James said, turning onto the main road. You were miserable for a week after.
And when Martha was born, I continued, staring out the window at the passing houses, instead of helping, she kept critiquing mehow I fed her, how I dressed her, how I held her. Then she got upset when I asked her to look after my own child.
James glanced at me. Maybe we should see a therapist? With your mum?
I managed a wry smile. Shed rather die than admit she has a problem. To her, a therapist is for lunatics.
The restaurant where my fatherinlaws jubilee was being held glowed with chandeliers and polished wood. Guests in evening dress drifted in, laughing.
Were here, James said, pulling into the valet area. Try not to think about Mum tonight, okay? My father was looking forward to this.
I nodded, rummaging for my lipstick, smoothing on a smile. A celebration was a celebration; I could not let my sorrow show.
Inside, the hall buzzed with chatter. Sir Victor Whitaker, a tall, silverhaired gentleman with a military bearing, greeted us at the entrance.
My latecomers! he shouted, enveloping his son and then me in a warm hug. You look wonderful, Poppy!
Happy birthday, Sir Victor, I pressed a kiss to his cheek. Sorry Im late, I was held up by my mother.
His expression hardened. How is she? Send my regards. It is an awkward coincidence with the dates.
Yes, awkward, I agreed, trying to sound casual. Well celebrate with her another day.
What about Martha? James asked. Shes unwell, I hear.
Just a cold, a slight fever. We left her at home to be safe.
Right, the childs health comes first, he nodded. Please, join the table; everyones already seated.
The banquet hall filled with music, clinking glasses, and waiters circulating with drinks. James slipped into conversations, while I sat, feigning enjoyment, my mind drifting back to that cramped flat with its yellowed wallpaper, where Mum probably now sat complaining to Mrs. Brown about my ungratefulness.
During a lull between toasts, my motherinlaw, Mrs. Lydia Hart, slipped into the seat beside me, her elegant navy dress immaculate.
Poppy, you look rather down today, she observed. Is something wrong?
I forced a smile. Nothing, just worrying about Martha. The babysitter called; the fever wont break.
She nodded sympathetically. Children often catch colds; it will pass by morning.
Then, lowering her voice, she added, James told me about your mothers birthday clash. It must be uncomfortable.
I exhaled. A birthday is a birthday, you cant move it. My mum is complicated.
I understand, she said gently, laying a hand on mine. My own mother was difficult. Whenever we visited, shed find a reason to criticize: Youre a poor housekeeper, Youre a bad mother, You dress inappropriately. I suffered for years.
How did you cope? I asked, curiosity cutting through the fatigue.
Honestly, I did nothing, she admitted with a sad smile. I endured, kept quiet, and eventually realised I could not change her. I could only change my response.
It sounds easy to say, I murmured. How do I do it?
You stop expecting from a person what they cannot give, she replied simply. Accept them as they are, flaws and all, and set your own boundaries. Your mother will never be the pictureperfect mother from a novel. Shell demand, get hurt, manipulateshes chosen that role. You can choose how to react.
I thought about her words. In the back of my mind, my mothers lonely figure rose again, birthday candles flickering in a dim kitchen.
I still feel sorry for her, I confessed. Shes alone on her birthday, upset, hurt.
She isnt alone, Lydia countered. She has a friend. She chose to be offended rather than accept the situationthats her right. But you also have the right to your life, your decisions, your priorities.
A toast interrupted us; a distant cousin rose, speaking about family values and the importance of kinship.
I smiled mechanically, nodding, yet the image of my mothers angry, solitary face lingered. When the crowd settled, I slipped my phone from my purse and texted the babysitter: Hows Martha?
Sleeping. Temp 37.4°C. No worries, came the swift reply.
I sent another message to my mother: Happy birthday, Mum. I love you. Ill visit tomorrow with Martha as soon as shes better.
Silence followed. I began to think she was ignoring me, until the phone finally chimed.
Thanks for the wishes, the text read. The cake from Mrs. Brown was awful, full of chemicals. Yours would have been better. Love, Mum.
A faint smile tugged at my lips; it was the closest thing to reconciliation my mother could manage.
Whats good? James asked, noticing my grin.
Mum wrote back, I showed him the screen. Shes almost not angry.
He snorted. For your mother thats practically a love confession.
The evening went ontoast after toast, dancing, a few games. Gradually I relaxed, even began to enjoy the night. Lydias advice settled like a warm blanket: I could not forever blame myself for not meeting someone elses expectations, even if that someone was my own mother.
We returned home late. The babysitter called to say Martha was sleeping peacefully, her temperature almost normal.
Tomorrow morning well go to Grandma, I told James, glancing at the nursery and smoothing the blanket over the sleeping child. Well give her a proper celebration.
Are you sure? he asked, loosening his tie. Maybe give her a few more days of being upset, so she appreciates when youre there.
No, I answered firmly. Shes my mother, flaws and all. I dont want a rift between us. Life is far too short.
The next morning I baked her favourite honey cake, dressed Martha in a frilly dress, and bought a bouquet of white chrysanthemumsMaggies favourite flowers.
Maggie opened the front door as if she had been waiting, her hair neatly set, a fresh dress on.
Grandma! Martha shouted, throwing herself into Maggies arms. Happy birthday! Look what we brought you! She clutched a clumsily wrapped box of trinkets.
Maggies face lit up; she lifted her greatgranddaughter onto her shoulders.
Martha, I thought you were still ill!
No longer! the little girl announced proudly. The doctor said Im a champion.
I placed the honey cake on the mantelpiece and handed Maggie the chrysanthemum bouquet.
Happy birthday, Mum.
We embraced, and I felt her arms tighten around me, a silent forgiveness passing between us, at least for the moment.
Come in quickly, Maggie buzzed, bustling to the kitchen. Teas ready, and the scones are fresh. Yesterday Zinka brought a dreadful storebought cakefull of chemicals. We barely finished it.
Martha giggled, and I exchanged a knowing glance with her. Everything seemed ordinary now, no longer a source of irritation but a gentle, familiar warmth. A mother is a mother, with all her quirks and a difficult temperament, and those moments we share are priceless because they never truly last.
Tell me about the night out, Maggie said, leading us to the sitting room. Was the restaurant as splendid as you said?
You know, I replied, hugging her shoulder, your scones beat any fivestar dessert. Those moments are what matter.
