15September2025
I still can picture the narrow hallway of the old council flat on Abbey Street, Manchester, stretching out like a wormhole. The walls are draped in faded floral wallpaper, and the floorboards creak under every stepleftover from the postwar building era. The whole place smells of boiled cabbage and the faint musk of cats, even though no cat has ever lived in flat7.
My mother, Margaret, lingered at the front door. She fiddled with the rusty lock for ages, then stared at me through the peephole for a good minute before finally pulling it open.
Finally! she exclaimed, pulling me into a hug. I was beginning to think youd forgotten my birthday. Come in quickly, the cake is in the oven.
I shuffled from foot to foot, clutching a small parcel. Mum, I barely have a moment. Im just stopping to wish you happy birthday and then I have to dashTom is waiting in the car.
The smile on Margarets face fell flat, replaced by a tight line of disappointment.
How can you just stop by? Ive set the table, got everything ready. Dorothy from the fifth floor is due, and Aunt Valerie will be here with her granddaughter. Were all waiting. A 65th birthday isnt a joke.
Mum, I whispered, biting my lip, I told you on the phone. My fatherinlaws 70th birthday is tonighta big celebration at the Riverside Hotel. All the family, friends, colleagues are coming. We simply cant miss it.
You think you can skip my birthday to attend your fatherinlaws? Margarets lips pursed. Do you think Im less important than his?
I didnt say that, I pleaded, feeling the walls close in. I suggested moving your party to tomorrow, keeping it smalljust a homemade cake and a few presents. You insisted it had to be today.
How can I move it? My birthday is today, not tomorrow! Margaret flared her arms. Dorothys already confirmed, the cake is baked. What am I supposed to tell them? That my own daughter would rather be with strangers than her own mother?
The hallway grew stifling. The scent of the baking cake drifted from the kitchen, making my head spinnot from the aroma, but from the relentless guilt that has chased me for years.
Theyre not strangers, I said, theyre my husbands family. We got the invitation a week ago, before you even decided to host anything.
A week ago! And you think I was born yesterday? Margaret snapped. A mothers birthday should be remembered forever, not only when someone sends a card.
I checked my watch. Tom had been waiting in the car for fifteen minutes. We were already late.
Mum, I really cant argue now. Heres the present, I said, handing her the bag. Its the electric kettle you asked for, with temperature control. And I pulled an envelope from my purse, money for the new coat you liked at Harrods.
She didnt take either the gift nor the envelope.
I dont need your handouts, she cut out. What I want is the attention of my own daughter. What kind of attention? You didnt even bring little Mary to greet her own grandmother.
Marys running a fever38.5°C, I replied wearily. I called you this morning, told you the nanny was looking after her.
A nanny! Margaret exclaimed, waving her hands. So Im not good enough to look after my own granddaughter? You think I cant handle her?
Mum, that
A knock at the door interrupted us. Dorothy, my mothers longtime neighbour, stood there in a bright dress, a cake clutched in both hands.
Happy birthday, dear! she chirped, then paused, noticing the tension between us. Oh dear, am I intruding?
Come in, Dorothy! Margaret brightened, gesturing grandly. Perfect timing. Meet my daughter, Emily. She popped in for a minute to wish me happy birthday and is already off to more important people.
Dorothy forced a smile. Dont worry, Margaret. Young people have their own lives. Dont hold them back.
Im not holding anyone! Margaret stepped aside, opening a clear path. Go, Emily, go. Let your fatherinlaw not be offended. As for me Ill survive. Im used to it.
I stood there, gift and envelope clenched, unsure what to do. My phone buzzed in my pocketTom must be wondering where I was.
Mum, please, I whispered, lets not make a scene in front of the neighbours. Ill come back tomorrow with Mary when shes better, and well celebrate properly as a family.
Neighbours? Margaret raised an eyebrow. Dorothy is closer than some relatives. She visits, asks after my health. Unlike others who pop in for five minutes, drop a few pounds, and are happy. Thats how they pay their dues.
Dorothy shifted from foot to foot, evidently regretting her role as an unwitting audience.
Im going to the kitchen to set the kettle, she muttered, retreating into the flat.
I placed the gift on the bedside table and set the envelope beside it. I understand, Mum. Im sorry I cant stay. Happy birthday. I pressed a quick kiss to her cheek and slipped out before she could say another hurtful word.
The stairwell outside reeked of damp and dust. I leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
The phone buzzed again. I answered. Yes, Tom, Im on my way down.
Why so long? Toms voice sounded anxious. Were already twenty minutes late.
Just the usual, I replied shortly. Ill explain in a minute.
I descended the creaky stairs and stepped out onto the street. Toms Toyota was parked outside, his fingers drumming restlessly on the steering wheel.
Hows it going? he asked as I buckled in.
I didnt manage to wish Mum happy birthday, I said, fastening my seatbelt. She said Im not her daughter because Im heading to your dads birthday instead of staying with her.
He sighed. Maybe you should have stayed?
And what would that have changed? I leaned back, exhausted. Shed find another excuse to be upset tomorrowmaybe the gift wasnt right, maybe Im too noisy, maybe I barely visit. Its endless, Tom.
He started the engine and we pulled away.
Remember last year? I began. I cancelled our seaside break to throw her a party. I set the table, invited her friends. She spent the whole evening complaining that the cake was storebought, full of chemicals, and that I didnt care about her health.
I remember, Tom said, turning onto the main road. You were miserable for a week after.
When Mary was born, I continued, staring out the window as past houses blurred, instead of helping with the baby shed constantly criticizehow I fed her, how I dressed her, how I held her. Then shed get angry that I rarely asked her to look after my mother.
Listen, Tom said, glancing at me, maybe we should see a therapist? Together with your mum?
I forced a wry smile. Shed rather die than admit she has relationship problems. To her, a therapist is for lunatics.
We arrived at the Riverside Hotel, where the glittering ballroom was already filling with guests for Victor Stevens 70th birthday. Dressed to the nines, people streamed through sparkling doors.
Were here, Tom said, parking the car. Try not to think about your mum tonight, okay? Fatherinlaws been looking forward to this for months.
I nodded, pulling a compact lipstick from my bag. I needed to mask my unease with a fresh coat of red and a practiced smile. A celebration is a celebration; no one should see me upset.
Inside, the room buzzed with chatter. Victor, a tall, silverhaired gentleman with a military bearing, greeted us at the entrance.
Ah, my tardy guests! he exclaimed, hugging his son and then me. Emily, you look radiant!
Happy birthday, Dad, I said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. Sorry were lateI was held up at my mothers place.
His expression grew serious. How is she? Send her my regards. Its a strange coincidence, the dates overlapping.
Yes, odd indeed, I replied, trying to sound casual. Well have a quiet celebration with her tomorrow.
And little Mary? Victor asked. Tom mentioned shes under the weather.
Just a mild fever, I answered. Nothing serious, but we kept her at home just in case.
Right, health comes first, he nodded. Please, find a seat; the banquet is underway.
The hall filled with music, clinking glasses, and waiters bearing drinks. Tom immersed himself in the festivities; I merely played along, my thoughts drifting back to the cramped flat with its yellowed wallpaper, where Mum was probably still griping to Dorothy about an ungrateful daughter.
During a lull between toasts, my motherinlaw, Sylvia, slipped into the seat beside me. She was an elegant woman in a navy dress, the picture of composure.
Emily, you look a bit down today, she observed. Everything alright?
Nothing much, I replied, forcing a smile. Just worrying about Mary. The nanny called; her temperature hasnt budged.
I understand, Sylvia said. Children get sick often; itll pass by morning, youll see.
She paused, then lowered her voice. Victor told me about your mums birthday clash. I feel rather awkward about it.
I sighed. What can I do? A birthday is a birthdayyou cant move it. My mum is simply a difficult person.
I get it, Sylvia reached out, touching my hand. My own mother was similarly tough. Whenever we visited shed find something to critiquemy cooking, my parenting, my attire. I suffered for years.
How did you cope? I asked, genuinely curious.
Honestly, I didnt. I endured, kept quiet, and eventually realised I couldt change her. I could only change my reaction, she said, a faint smile playing on her lips. Accept people as they are, flaws and all, and set boundaries. Your mum will never be a pictureperfect mother; shell complain, feel hurt, maybe manipulate. Thats her choice. Yours is how you respond.
Her words struck a chord, though I still felt a tug of compassion. I do feel sorry for her. Shes probably sitting alone on her birthday, upset.
She isnt alone, Sylvia replied. She has a friend here. She chose to be upset rather than accept the situationthats her right. But you also have a right to live your life, make your own choices, set your priorities.
A hearty toast interrupted us, and everyone rose, glasses raised. Victors cousin delivered a heartfelt speech about family values and the importance of blood ties.
I managed a mechanical smile, nodding along, but the image of my mothers angry, lonely face lingered. When the crowd sat down again, I slipped my phone out and texted the nanny: Hows Mary? The reply came quickly: Sleeping. Temp 37.4°C. No worries.
Feeling a little steadier, I sent another message to Margaret: Happy birthday, Mum. I love you. Ill be back tomorrow with Mary as soon as she feels better.
For a while there was no reply. I started to think she was ignoring me, until the phone finally buzzed. Thanks for the wishes, it read. Zinas cake was terriblefull of chemicals. Yours would have been better. Love, Mum.
A reluctant smile tugged at my lips. It was the closest thing to reconciliation I could get from her.
Whats that? Tom asked, noticing my smile.
Mum texted, I showed him the screen. Shes not completely angry, I think.
He chuckled, For your mum thats practically a love letter.
The evening went onmore toasts, a few dances, a couple of games. As the night wore on, I began to relax, even find a small amount of enjoyment. Sylvias advice rang true: I couldnt keep blaming myself for not living up to anyones expectations, even my own mothers.
When we finally left the hotel, the nanny called to say Mary had slept through the night, her temperature almost normal.
Tomorrow morning well visit Grandma, I told Tom, peeking into Marys bedroom and smoothing the blanket over her. Well give her the proper birthday celebration she deserves.
Are you sure? Tom asked, untying his tie. Maybe let her stay a bit angry so she appreciates us more when we return.
No, I said firmly. Shes my mother, with all her flaws, and I dont want any lingering resentment. Lifes too short for that.
The next morning I baked Moms favourite honey cake, dressed Mary in a pretty dress, and we set off for the celebration at my mothers house. On the way I stopped at a florist and bought a bouquet of white chrysanthemumsher favourite.
Margaret opened the door as if shed been waiting for us. She wore a fresh dress, hair neatly styled for the occasion.
Grandma! Mary shrieked, leaping into her arms. Happy birthday! Look what weve brought you!
She handed over a clumsily wrapped box of beads shed handpicked from a market stall.
Margarets face lit up, and she lifted her greatgranddaughter into her lap. Mary, I thought you were still ill!
Im fine now! the little girl declared proudly. The 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, embracing her.
She squeezed me tightly, and for a moment I felt the old hurt melt away. Come in quickly, she said, bustling about. Tea is ready, and the scones are fresh. Yesterday Zina brought that awful storebought cakefull of chemicals. We barely finished it.
Mary gave me a mischievous grin, and I returned it with a wink. The day settled into a comfortable rhythmtea, laughter, the simple pleasure of homemade treats. My mothers quirks and volatile moods were still there, but they no longer felt like a weight I had to carry alone.
Later, as we all gathered around the kitchen table, I whispered to Margaret, Your scones are better than any fivestar restaurant. She smiled, and I realized those small moments are the ones that truly endure.
