The hallway in the old council block was as narrow and long as a gut, the walls plastered with faded floral wallpaper, and the floor was a squeaky wooden floor laid down back when the building was first erected. The air always carried the scent of boiled cabbage and a hint of cats, even though no cat had ever lived in flat7.
Maggie Thompson didnt fling the door open straight away. First she fumbled with the bolt, then she lingered a moment peering through the peephole before finally allowing me in.
Finally! she cried, pulling her daughter into a hug. I was starting to think youd forgotten. Come in, Ive got a cake in the oven.
Emma shifted nervously from one foot to the other, a parcel clutched in both hands.
Mum, I barely have a minute. I popped in to wish you happy birthday and then Im straight back to the car. Victors waiting.
Maggies expression shifted instantly, joy melting into disappointment.
How can you just pop in? Ive set the table, prepared everything. Dorothy from the fifth floor will be here, Helen with her granddaughter. Were waiting for you. A 65th birthday isnt a joke.
Mum, Emma said, biting her lip, I told you on the phone. Its Victors fathers 70thbirthday todaya big celebration at a restaurant. All the family, friends, colleagues are there. We cant skip it.
So I can skip my own birthday? Maggie snapped, her lips pressed thin. Im worse than your fatherinlaw?
Dont say that, Mum, Emma replied, feeling the walls close in. I suggested moving your party to tomorrow, doing it at home with cake and presents. You shrugged it offonly today works, thats it.
How could I move it? My birthday is today, not tomorrow! Maggie flailed. Dorothys already on her way and the cake is baked. What am I supposed to tell them? That my own daughter prefers strangers parties to her mothers?
The hallway grew stifling. The smell of the cake drifting from the kitchen made Emmas head spin, not from the aroma but from the endless guilt that had followed her all her life.
Theyre not strangers, Mum. Theyre my husbands family. We got the invitation a week ago, before you even thought of arranging anything.
A week ago! And you think I was born yesterday? Maggie huffed. A mothers birthday should be remembered every day, not waiting for an invitation.
Emma glanced at her watch. Victor had been waiting in the car for fifteen minutes. They were late.
Mum, I cant argue right now. Here, take the gift. She handed over the parcel. Its the electric kettle you wanted, with the temperature control. And She pulled an envelope from her bag, money for the new coat you liked at The Snow Queen.
Maggie turned away from both.
I dont want your handouts, she snapped. I want the attention of my own daughter. What attention? You didnt even bring little May to greet her grandmother.
Mays feverish, thirtyeight point five, Emma said wearily. I called you this morning, told you. The nannys looking after her.
A nanny! And Im not good enough to look after my own grandchild? Maggies hands flew up. You think I cant manage?
Dont
There was a knock. Dorothy Clarke stood on the landing, a bright dress fluttering and a cake in her hands.
Happy birthday, dear! she exclaimed, then paused, seeing the tension.
Come in, Dorothy! Maggie brightened, forcing a smile. Meet my daughter, Ellie. Shes just popped in to wish me and is already off to more important people.
Dorothy smiled awkwardly. Dont worry, Maggie. Young people have their own lives. No point holding them back.
Im not holding anyone! Maggie stepped aside, widening the doorway. Go on, Ellie, go. I dont want your fatherinlaw to get offended. Mum will surviveshes used to it.
Emma stood there, clutching the kettle and the envelope, unsure what to do. Her phone buzzed in her pocketVictor must be wondering where she was.
Mum, please, she whispered. Lets not make a scene in front of strangers. Ill come back tomorrow with May when shes better, and well celebrate properly, just the two of us.
Strangers? Maggie raised an eyebrow. Dorothy is closer to me than some relatives. She checks in, she visits. Not like those who pop in once a month, throw a few pounds at you and are satisfied.
Dorothy shifted from foot to foot, clearly wishing she werent witnessing the showdown.
I think Ill go to the kitchen and set the kettle up, she muttered, retreating.
Alright, Emma placed the kettle on the bedside table, the envelope beside it. I understand, Mum. Im sorry I cant stay. Happy birthday.
She planted a quick kiss on Maggies cheek and slipped out before another harsh word could be spoken. The stairwell smelled of damp and dust. She leaned against the wall, took a deep breath, and steadied herself.
The phone buzzed again. This time she answered.
Yes, Victor, Im coming down now.
Why so long? his voice sounded anxious. Were already twenty minutes late.
Everythings fine, she replied shortly. Ill explain.
She descended the cracked stairs and stepped outside. Victors silver Toyota was idling by the entrance, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
Hows it going? he asked as she buckled up.
Didnt wish Mum, because she said Im not her daughter if I go to your fathers birthday instead of staying with her, Emma said, fastening her seatbelt.
Victor sighed. Another twentyfive minutes, then? Maybe you should have stayed.
What would that change? Emma leaned back. Tomorrow shed find a new reason to be upset. The gift isnt right, May is too noisy, I dont visit enough. It never ends, Victor.
He started the engine, and they pulled away.
Remember last year? Emma began. I cancelled our seaside trip to host her birthday. I set the table, invited her friends. She spent the whole evening whining that the cake was bought, not homemade, and that I didnt care about her health because storebought cakes are full of chemicals.
I remember, Victor said, turning onto the main road. You spent a week moping after that.
When May was born, Emma continued, eyes on the passing houses, instead of helping with the baby, she criticised how I fed her, how I dressed her, how I held her. Then shed be cross that I rarely asked her to look after my granddaughter.
Maybe we should see a therapist? Victor suggested, glancing at her. Together with your mum?
Emma cracked a weary smile. Shed rather die than admit she has a problem with me. To her, a therapist is for lunatics.
They arrived at the restaurant where Victors father, Sir Victor Stevens, was already greeting guests. The place glittered with lights, and people in smart attire streamed in.
Here we are, Victor said, parking. Try not to think about your mum tonight, alright? You know how much your dad was looking forward to this.
Emma nodded, pulled out a lipstick, and forced a smile onto her face. A celebration is a celebration; no one should see her upset.
Inside, the ballroom buzzed with chatter. Sir Victor, a tall silverhaired man with a military bearing, met them at the entrance.
Finally, my tardy guests! he shouted, hugging his son first and then Emma. You look radiant!
Happy birthday, Dad, Emma said, kissing his cheek. Sorry were late, I got held up at my mums.
Sir Victors expression grew serious. Hows she? Send her my regards. The coincidence of the dates is a bit awkward.
Yes, awkward, Emma agreed, trying to sound casual. Well have a separate celebration with her tomorrow.
And little May? Victor asked. I heard shes ill.
Just a temperature, Emma answered. Nothing serious, a common cold. We kept her at home just in case.
Good, a childs health comes first. Come, the table is set.
The room filled with music, servers carrying drinks, and laughter. Emma and Victor took their seats, Victor genuinely joining the revelry while Emma merely played the part. Her thoughts drifted back to the cramped flat with the yellowed wallpaper, where Maggie was probably still griping about the cake.
During a lull between toasts, Victors mother, Sylvia Parker, slipped into the seat beside Emma, her sleek navy dress immaculate.
Emma, you look a bit down today, she observed. Everything alright?
No, nothing at all, Emma replied, forcing a smile. Just worried about May. The nanny says her fever isnt breaking.
I understand, Sylvia said. Kids 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 uncomfortable.
Emma exhaled. What does that matter? A birthday is a birthday; you cant move it. My mum is… complicated.
I get it, Sylvia touched Emmas hand gently. My own mother was difficult. Every visit shed find something to criticizehow I cooked, how I raised my children, even my clothes. I suffered for years.
How did you cope? Emma asked.
Honestly, I did nothing. I kept quiet, endured, then realized I couldnt change her. I could only change how I reacted, Sylvia said. Accept people as they are, set boundaries. Your mum will never be a pictureperfect mother; shell complain, be hurt, manipulate. Thats her choice. Yours is how you answer.
Emma considered this. Easy to say, harder to do. I still feel sorry for hersitting alone on her birthday, upset.
She isnt alone, Sylvia reminded her. She has a friend here. She chose to be upset instead of accepting. Thats her right, but you also have a right to your life, your decisions, your priorities.
A toast interrupted them. Everyone rose, glasses clinking, as Victors cousin delivered a heartfelt speech about family values and ties.
Emma smiled mechanically, nodded, but the image of Maggies angry, lonely face lingered. When the guests sat down again, she slipped her phone out and texted the nanny: Hows May?
Sleeping, temp 37.4. No worries, came the quick reply.
She then messaged her mum: Happy birthday, Mum. I love you. Ill be back tomorrow with May as soon as she feels better.
There was a pause before a reply arrived. Thanks for the wishes. Zinas storebought cake was dreadful, full of chemicals. Yours would have been better. Love, Mum.
Emma couldnt help the faint smile that tugged at her lips. It was the closest thing to reconciliation Maggie could manage.
Whats that? Victor asked, noticing her smile.
Mum texted, she showed him. Shes almost not angry.
Victor snorted. For your mum thats practically a love declaration.
The evening went on with more toasts, dancing, and games. Gradually, Emma relaxed and even began to enjoy herself. She realised the advice Sylvia had given made sense: you cant endlessly blame yourself for not meeting someone elses expectations, even if that someone is your own mother.
They left the venue late, the nanny calling to say May had slept soundly and her temperature was almost normal.
Tomorrow morning well head to Grandmas, Emma said, peeking into the nursery and tucking the blanket around her sleeping daughter. Well give her a proper birthday.
Sure? Victor asked, loosening his tie. Or should we let her stew a bit longer so she appreciates it more?
No, Emma answered firmly. Shes my mum, flaws and all, and I dont want a rift between us. Lifes too short for that.
The next day Emma baked a honey cake, the one her mum loved, dressed May in a little frock, and set off for the family celebration. On the way she bought a bouquet of white chrysanthemumsher mums favourite flowers.
Maggie opened the door as soon as they arrived, as if shed been waiting on the landing. She wore a fresh dress, hair done up for the occasion.
Grandma! May shouted, flinging herself into Maggies arms. Happy birthday! Look what we got you! She handed over a clumsily wrapped box of beads shed picked out herself.
Maggies face lit up; she lifted May onto her lap. May, I thought you were still ill!
No more ill! the little girl declared. The doctor said Im fine.
Emma set the cake on the table and handed her mum the bouquet. Happy birthday, Mum.
They embraced, and Emma felt Maggies arms pull her close, the old resentment melting away, if only for a while.
Come in, quickly, Maggie buzzed, the tea is ready and the scones are fresh. Yesterday Zina brought that awful store cake, full of chemicals, and we barely finished it.
Emma exchanged a glance with May and gave a quiet wink. Everything felt ordinary now, and the irritation that had lain heavy before turned into a warm smile. A mother is a mother, quirks and all, and those moments together are what truly matter, because they never last forever.
