The hallway in the old council flat is narrow and long, like a gut. Yellowed floral wallpaper lines the walls, and the floorboards creak beneath the feet, a relic from the postwar era. The air always smells of boiled cabbage and cats, even though a cat has never lived in flat7.
Nina Clarke finally opens the door after fiddling with the lock for a long while, then watching through the peephole for a minute before letting anyone in.
Finally! she exclaims, pulling her daughter into a hug. I was sure you wouldnt come. Come in quickly, Ive got a cake in the oven.
Emma shifts uneasily from foot to foot, a gift bag clutched in her hands.
Mum, Ive got almost no time. Ive just popped in to wish you happy birthday and then I have to dash. Victor is waiting in the car.
Ninas face drops from delight to disappointment in an instant.
How can you just pop in? Ive set the table, Ive prepared everything. Zoe Peterson from the fifth floor will be here, Valerie with her granddaughter. Were all waiting. A 65yearold birthday isnt a joke.
Mum, Emma bites her lip, I told you on the phone. Today is my fatherinlaws seventieth birthday, a big restaurant celebration. All his relatives, friends, colleagues are coming. We cant miss it.
So I can skip my own birthday then? Nina presses her lips together. Does that make me worse than your fatherinlaw?
Dont say that, Mum, Emma feels cornered. I suggested moving your party to tomorrow, doing it just as a family with cake and presents. But you stubbornly said today is the only day.
How could I move it? My birthday is today, not tomorrow! Nina waves her hands. Zoe is already on her way and the cake is baked. What am I supposed to tell them? That my daughter prefers strangers to her own mother?
The hallway becomes stifling. The scent of the baking cake drifts from the kitchen, making Emmas head spinnot from the smell but from the endless guilt that has haunted her.
Theyre not strangers, Mum. Theyre my husbands family. We received the invitation a week ago, before you even planned a party.
A week ago! And you think I was born yesterday? Nina snaps. A mothers birthday should be remembered always, not waiting for an invite.
Emma glances at her watch. Victor has been waiting in the car for fifteen minutes; theyre late.
Mum, I cant argue now. Here, take the gift, she says, handing over the bag. Its the electric kettle you wanted, with temperature control. And this, she pulls an envelope from her purse, is money for the new coat you liked at The Snow Queen.
Nina refuses both the present and the envelope.
I dont need your handouts, she snaps. I need attention from my own daughter. What attention? You havent even brought little Molly to greet her own grandmother.
Molly has a fever, thirtyeight point five, Emma replies wearily. I called you this morning, the nanny is looking after her.
A nanny! Nina flares her arms. So Im not good enough as a grandmother? You think I cant handle my own granddaughter?
Mum, what does that have to do with
A knock at the door interrupts them. Zoe Peterson stands on the landing, dressed in a smart dress, a cake in her hands.
Happy birthday, Nina! she cries, then stops, noticing the tense faces. Oh, am I early?
Come in, Zoe! Nina brightens, stepping aside. Perfect timing. Meet my daughter, Emma. Shes just popped in to wish me happy birthday and is already off to more important people.
Zoe smiles awkwardly. Dont worry, Nina. Young people have their own lives. Dont hold her back.
Im not holding anyone! Nina steps dramatically aside, creating a clear path to the exit. Go, Emma, go. Let your fatherinlaw be pleased. Mum will surviveshes used to it.
Emma stands there, gift and envelope clenched, unsure what to do. Her phone buzzes in her pocketVictor must be wondering where she is.
Mum, please, Emma whispers. Lets not make a scene in front of strangers. Ill come back tomorrow with Molly as soon as she feels better, and well celebrate properly, as a family.
Strangers? Nina arches an eyebrow. Zoe is closer to me than most relatives. She visits, asks about my health. Some people only pop in once a month, drop a few pounds and are happy. Thats not me.
Zoe shifts from foot to foot, clearly regretting being drawn into the drama.
I think Ill go to the kitchen and set the kettle, she murmurs, retreating deeper into the flat.
Emma places the gift on the bedside table and the envelope beside it. I understand, Mum. Im sorry I cant stay. Happy birthday. She kisses Nina on the cheek and steps out before another harsh word can be spoken. The stairwell smells of damp and dust. Emma leans against the wall and takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
The phone buzzes again. She answers.
Yes, Victor, Im on my way downstairs.
Whats taking so long? Victors voice sounds anxious. Were already twenty minutes late.
Just the usual, Emma replies shortly. Ill explain in a minute.
She descends the cracked stairs and steps out onto the street. Victors Toyota is parked outside, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
Hows it going? he asks as she slides into the passenger seat.
Didnt get to wish her happy birthday, Emma buckles her seatbelt. She said Im not her daughter because Im going to my fatherinlaws party instead of staying with her.
Victor sighs. Maybe you should have stayed.
And what would that have changed? Emma leans back, exhausted. Shed find another excuse tomorrow. The gifts wrong, Mollys too noisy, I visit too rarely. It never ends, Victor.
Victor starts the engine and they pull away.
Remember last year? Emma continues. I cancelled our seaside trip to throw her a party. I set the table, invited her friends. She spent the whole evening whining about the storebought cake, saying I dont care about her health because the cake is full of chemicals.
I remember, Victor says, turning onto the main road. You were miserable for a week after that.
And when Molly was born? Emma looks out the window, seeing not passing houses but memories. Instead of helping, she kept criticizing me: Youre feeding her wrong, youre dressing her wrong, youre holding her wrong. Then she got upset that I rarely asked her to look after my granddaughter.
Maybe we should see a therapist? With your mum too? Victor suggests.
Emma gives a tired grin. Shed rather die than admit she has relationship problems. To her, a therapist is for lunatics.
They arrive at the restaurant where Victor Stevenss seventieth birthday is already in full swing. Dressed guests stream through the glittering doors.
Were here, Victor says, parking. Try not to think about your mum tonight, okay? You know how proud your dad was to have us.
Emma nods, pulls out a lipstick, and applies a quick smile. A celebration is a celebration; no one should see her upset.
Inside, the hall is noisy and crowded. Victor Stevens, a tall silverhaired man with a military bearing, greets them at the entrance.
My latecomers! he exclaims, hugging his son and then his daughterinlaw. Emma, you look wonderful!
Happy birthday, Dad, Emma kisses Victor on the cheek. Sorry were late, I I was held up by my mum.
Victors face turns serious. How is she? Send her my regards. The date clash is awkward, I know.
Yes, awkward, Emma agrees, trying to sound casual. Well celebrate with her another day.
And little Molly? Victor said shes under the weather.
A slight fever, Emma replies. Nothing serious, just a cold. We kept her at home just in case.
Good, Victor nods. A childs health is everything. Please, find a seat; everyones already gathered.
The banquet hall hums with music, waiters circulate drinks, guests chatter loudly. Victor joins the conversation, while Emma merely pretends to enjoy herself. Her mind drifts back to the shabby flat with yellow wallpaper, where Nina is probably still complaining to Zoe about an ungrateful daughter.
During a lull between toasts, Emmas motherinlaw, Tanya Victor, an elegant woman in a dark blue dress, sits beside her.
Emma, you look a bit down today, Tanya observes. Something on your mind?
No, nothing, Emma forces a smile. Just worrying about Molly. The nanny called; her temperature isnt dropping.
I understand, Tanya says. Kids get sick all the time; itll pass by morning, youll see.
She pauses, then whispers, Victor told me about your mums birthday clash. I feel awkward.
Emma sighs. What does that have to do with me? A birthday is a birthday; you cant move it. My mum is just a difficult person.
I get it, Tanya reaches for Emmas hand. My own mother was hard too. Whenever we visited, shed find something to criticizeYoure a bad housekeeper, a bad mother, you dress wrong. I suffered for years.
How did you cope? Emma asks.
Honestly, I didnt. I kept quiet, endured, and eventually realised I cant change someone else. I can only change how I react, Tanya replies. Accept them as they are, set boundaries. Your mum will never be a pictureperfect mother; shell get angry, manipulate, and thats her choice. You choose how to respond.
Emma nods, thinking over the words.
I still feel sorry for her, she admits. Shes alone on her birthday, upset.
She isnt alone, Tanya reminds her. She has a friend. She chose to stay upset instead of accepting. Thats her right, Emma. But you also have the right to live your life, make your own decisions.
A toast interrupts them. Everyone stands, glasses raised. Victors cousin delivers a heartfelt speech about family values and the importance of kinship.
Emma smiles mechanically, nodding, but the image of her mothers angry, lonely face stays vivid. When the guests sit again, she slips a phone from her purse and texts the nanny: Hows Molly? The reply arrives quickly: Shes asleep, temperature 37.4°C. No worries.
She breathes a little easier and sends another message to Nina: Happy birthday, Mum. I love you. Ill be back tomorrow with Molly as soon as she feels better.
Theres a long pause before a reply. Finally her phone buzzes. Thanks for the wishes. Zoes cake was terrible, full of chemicals. Yours would have been better. Love, Mum. Emma cant help but smile at the small concession.
Whats that? Victor asks, noticing her grin.
Mum just texted, Emma shows him. Shes almost not angry.
Victor snorts. For your mum, thats practically an admission of love.
The evening goes on with more toasts, dancing, and games. Gradually Emma relaxes and even starts to enjoy herself. She realises her motherinlaws advice makes sense: you cant keep blaming yourself for not meeting everyones expectations, even when that someone is your own mother.
They drive home late. The nanny calls to say Molly slept soundly and her temperature has almost normalised.
Tomorrow morning well go to Grandmas, Emma says, peeking into the nursery and smoothing the blanket over the sleeping child. Well give her a proper birthday.
Are you sure? Victor asks, unbuckling his tie. Maybe give her a few more days to stay upset, so she appreciates the visit.
No, Emma answers firmly. Shes my mother, flaws and all. I dont want a rift between us. Lifes too short for that.
The next morning Emma bakes her mums favourite honey cake, dresses Molly in a pretty dress, and they head to the family birthday celebration. On the way she picks up a bunch of white chrysanthemumsher mothers favourite flowers.
Nina Clarke opens the door as soon as they arrive, as if shed been waiting on the landing. Shes in a fresh dress, hair neatly done for the occasion.
Grandma! Molly shrieks, throwing herself around Ninas neck. Happy birthday! Look what we brought you!
She hands over a clumsily wrapped box of beads she chose herself at the shop.
Nina lights up, lifts her greatgranddaughter into her arms. Molly! I thought you were still ill!
Not any more! the little girl declares proudly. The doctor said Im fine.
Emma places the honey cake on the side table and hands Nina the bouquet. Happy birthday, Mum.
They hug. Nina squeezes Emma close, and Emma feels the tension melt away, if only for a moment.
Come in, love, Nina says, bustling about. The tea is ready and the scones are fresh. Yesterday Zoe brought that awful storebought cakefull of chemicals. We barely finished it.
Emma exchanges a glance with Molly and winks. Everything feels ordinary now, and the irritation has turned into a warm smile. Mum is still mum, with all her quirks and a complicated temperament, and its worth cherishing every fleeting moment together.
