«We werent expecting you,» said Sarah, opening the door on my birthday.
«Why do you always push into my life?» Emilys voice trembled with frustration. «Im thirty-seven, Mum. A grown woman!»
«Am I pushing?» Margaret Wilson spread her hands helplessly. «I only asked why you and James broke up. Im your motherI worry. Thats what mothers do.»
«Thats just ityoure my *mother*, not an investigator.» Emily turned toward the window. «I have my own life. My own reasons for the choices I make.»
Margaret sighed, carefully folding the half-knitted scarf into her bag. Another strained conversation with her daughter. The wall between them seemed higher with every passing year.
«All right, I wont ask again,» she conceded softly. «I just thought you two were happy…»
«Mum!» Emily spun around sharply. «Can we drop it? Please dont ruin our first family dinner in a month.»
Margaret nodded and fell silent. She visited less and less these daysEmily was always busy: work, friends, spin classes, evening courses. There was hardly ever time for her mother.
Leaving her daughters flat that evening, Margaret felt the weight of loneliness settle over her. Sixty next week, and who was left to celebrate with? Her husband had passed three years ago, her closest friends had scattered across the country, and Emily was wrapped up in her own world. Maybe the milestone wasnt worth marking at all.
But at home, flipping through old photo albums, she stumbled upon a picture of little Emily at five, cheeks flushed, eyes alight as she blew out candles on a cake. Margaret had been a bookkeeper then, barely making ends meet, but she always managed a proper celebrationcake, gifts, friends.
*My birthdays in a week*, she thought, *and even my own daughters forgotten. Should I remind her?*
She reached for the phone, then hesitated. No. She wouldnt beg for attention. If Emily couldnt remember, so be it. What did numbers matter, anyway? Fifty-nine, sixtyjust marks on a calendar.
But the thought gnawed at her. Days later, she finally dialled.
«Hi, Mum,» Emily answered, her voice distracted. «Everything all right?»
«Yes, yes. Justmy birthdays Saturday. Ill be sixty.»
«Oh! Really?» A flicker of surprise. «It completely slipped my mind. Works been mad…»
«Its fine,» Margaret said quickly. «Just thought Id mention it.»
«Sorry, Mum,» Emily softened. «Ill try to stop byaround five?»
«Perfect. Ill make your favouritecherry pie.»
«Lovely. Gotta dashwell chat later.»
Hanging up, Margaret felt a flutter of hope. She hadnt been forgotten after all.
The day dawned unseasonably bright for April. Margaret rose earlycleaned the flat, baked the pie, even treated herself to a salon visit. She bought a bottle of merlot, Emilys preferred cheese, fresh fruit. She wanted this evening to feel special, warm, perhaps even bridge the distance between them.
But five oclock came and went. Six. No Emily. Her calls went straight to voicemail.
*Traffic*, Margaret told herself, glancing at the clock. *Or a work emergency.*
By seven, worry coiled in her chest. What if something had happened? Accidents, robberiesher mind spiralled. Unable to bear it, she called a cab.
Outside Emilys building, a familiar car sat parked among others. Reliefshe was home. Safe. But then, why hadnt she come?
The climb to the fifth floor felt endless. The doorbell chimed. Silence. Then footsteps.
Emily stood theredressed up, hair styled, makeup flawless. Behind her, laughter and clinking glasses.
«Mum?» She blinked. «We werent We didnt expect you.»
«II was worried.» Margaret clutched the bouquet shed bought herselfa small consolation for a lonely celebration. «You didnt answer.»
A man appeared behind Emilytall, bearded, in a crisp shirt. «Em, whos Oh! Hello!»
«This is my mum,» Emily said stiffly. «Mum, this is Oliver. Were seeing each other.»
«Pleasure,» Margaret managed, shaking his hand.
Oliver smiled warmly. «Emilys told me so much about you.»
From inside, a womans voice called, «Em, the pastas getting cold!»
«Coming!» Emily shot an apologetic look at Margaret. «Were having a few friends over. II completely forgot about our plans. Im so sorry.»
The lump in Margarets throat threatened to choke her. Her daughter had thrown a partyon her birthday.
«Its all right,» she forced out. «Ill go.»
«Wait,» Emily frowned. «Since youre herecome in. Meet everyone.»
The flat buzzed with chatter. Wineglasses clinked. On the table sat a chocolate-frosted cake*not* for sixty candles.
«Were planning a surprise for Lucys thirtieth,» Emily explained.
*But not mine*, Margaret thought.
In the hallway, she pressed an envelope into Emilys hand. «For that coat you wanted.»
«Mum, stopI earn plenty.»
«Take it. Please.»
Emily pocketed it reluctantly.
Thenhesitation. «Why *did* you come?»
Margaret froze. Had she truly forgotten?
«My birthday, Emily. Sixty today. You promised to come.»
Emilys face drained of colour. «Oh God. MumIm *so* sorry.»
«Dont be. Its just a day.»
But Emily rushed to the kitchen. Voices murmured, then eruptedgasps, exclamations.
Minutes later, the group emergedOliver holding champagne. «Margaret, were throwing you an impromptu party!»
They rearranged the table, scrounged candles, toasted her health. Oliver praised her knitting; a friend begged for a sweater. Emily produced a jewellery box»I bought it for myself, but its *yours*.»
The night transformedlaughter, old photos, stories of Margarets youth.
At dawn, Oliver drove her home. Emily followed.
«Stay over,» she urged. «Lets talk.»
«Another time,» Margaret smiled.
Days later, Emily returnedwith a cake, flowers, and a *real* gift: a seaside holiday for two.
«Remember our trips when I was маленькой?» Emily grinned. «Now its my turn to pay.»
Margaret protestedshe had savings.
«Its *my turn*,» Emily insisted.
They sipped tea, planning their summer. And Margaret realisedsometimes, you must arrive uninvited to remind them youre loved. Even if they werent expecting you, they *can* be glad you came.
