The hallway of the old council flat was as narrow and long as a sausage roll. Yellowed floral wallpaper clung to the walls, and the creaky wooden floorboards, laid down in the postwar years, complained with every step. The air always carried a faint hint of boiled cabbage and, oddly enough, of cats even though flat7 had never owned a feline.
Margaret opened the door with a theatrical sigh. First she wrestled with the rusty lock, then she peered through the peephole for a good ten seconds, and only then let her guest in.
Finally! she exclaimed, pulling her daughter into a hug. I was halfcertain youd stood you up. Come in, love, the cakes in the oven.
Imogen shuffled uneasily, clutching a brown paper bag.
Mum, Ive got barely a minute. I popped round to wish you happy birthday and then Im off again Victors waiting in the car.
Margarets smile faded faster than a cheap wine on a hot day.
What do you mean popped round? Ive set the table, baked the cake, everythings ready. Ethel from the fifth floor is on her way, and Violet will be here with her granddaughter. Were waiting for you. A 65th birthday isnt a joke, you know.
Mum, Imogen bit her lip, I told you on the phone today is my fatherinlaws 70th, a big bash at the restaurant. All the relatives, friends, colleagues are there. We cant possibly miss it.
So I can skip my own birthday, then? Margaret pursed her lips. Am I worse than your fatherinlaw?
Mum, what are you on about? Imogen felt the walls closing in. I suggested moving your party to tomorrow, doing a proper family thing cake, presents, the whole lot. But you dug in your heels today only, thats it.
How could I move it? My birthday is today, not tomorrow! Margaret flailed her arms. Ethels already set her mind on it, and the cake is already in the oven. What am I supposed to tell them? That my own daughter would rather party with strangers than her own mum?
The hallway grew stuffy. The smell of the baking cake drifted from the kitchen, making Imogen feel lightheaded or perhaps it was the relentless guilt that had been dogging her for years.
Theyre not strangers, Mum. Theyre my husbands family. We got the invitation a week ago, before you even decided to throw a party.
A week ago? And when was I born, you think yesterday? Margaret snapped. A mothers birthday should be remembered forever, not when someone sends a card.
Imogen glanced at her watch. Victor had been waiting in the car for fifteen minutes. They were already late.
Mum, I really cant argue now. Heres your present, she said, handing over the bag. A new electric kettle with temperature control, just like you wanted. And, she fished a envelope from her purse, some money for that coat you liked at The Snow Queen.
Margaret ignored both.
I dont need your handouts, she snapped. I need the attention of my own daughter. Speaking of which, wheres little Martha? Shes not even here to wish her own grandma.
Marthas got a fever 38.5°C, Imogen replied wearily. I called you this morning, told you the nanny was looking after her.
A nanny! Margaret wailed. So Im not good enough to watch my granddaughter? Do you think I cant manage?
Mum, thats
A knock sounded at the door. In stepped Ethel, the fifthfloor neighbour, a year younger than Margaret, dressed in a cheerful dress and balancing a homemade cake.
Happy birthday, dear! she cried, then froze when she saw the tension. Oh, am I late?
Come in, Ethel! Margaret brightened, waving her hand like a stage manager. Just in time. Meet my daughter, Imogen. Shes just popped in to say happy birthday and is already off to more important people.
Ethel smiled awkwardly. Oh, Margaret, the young folk have their own lives. Dont hold them back.
Im not holding anyone! Margaret stepped aside dramatically, creating a clear path to the stairwell. Off you go, Imogen, before Victors father gets cross. As for me, Ill survive Ive been through worse.
Imogen stood there, gift and envelope clenched, unsure what to do. Her phone buzzed in her pocket Victor no doubt wondering where she was.
Mum, please, she whispered, lets not make a scene in front of the neighbours. Ill come back tomorrow with Martha when shes better, and well have a proper family celebration.
Neighbours? Margaret raised an eyebrow. Ethel is nearer than most kin. She actually checks up on me, unlike those distant relatives who pop in for five minutes, drop a few quid, and are off. Thats a different sort of charity.
Ethel shifted from foot to foot, clearly regretting being the unwanted audience.
I think Ill go into the kitchen and set the kettle, she muttered, retreating.
Fine, Imogen said, placing the gift on the mantel and sliding the envelope beside it. I understand, Mum. Im sorry I cant stay. Happy birthday. She planted a quick kiss on Margarets cheek and slipped out before another barb could be hurled. The hallway smelled of damp and dust. She leaned against the stairwell, inhaled deeply, and tried to steady herself.
Another buzz. This time she answered.
Yes, Victor, Im coming down now.
Whats taking you so long? his voice sounded impatient. Were already twenty minutes late.
Nothing new, Imogen replied shortly. Ill be there in a tick.
She descended the grimy stairs and stepped outside. Victors silver Toyota waited, his foot drumming on the steering wheel.
So, whats the story? he asked as she buckled up.
Didnt wish Mum happy birthday, Imogen said, fastening her seatbelt. She told me Im not her daughter because Im off to my fatherinlaws jubilee instead of staying with her.
Victor sighed. Again, twentyfive years of this. Maybe you should have stayed?
What would that have changed? Imogen rolled her eyes. Shed find another excuse tomorrow the wrong gift, Martha being too noisy, me not visiting enough. Its a neverending loop, love.
He started the engine, and they pulled away.
Remember last year? Imogen began. I cancelled our seaside break to throw her a party. I set the table, invited her friends, and she spent the whole evening moaning about the storebought cake being full of chemicals.
I remember, Victor said, turning onto the main road. You were miserable for a week after.
And when Martha was born? Imogen mused, staring out the window at passing rows of terraced houses. Instead of helping with the baby, my motherinlaw would critique everything 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 daughter.
Victor glanced at her. Maybe we should see a therapist? Together with your mum?
Imogen let out a weary chuckle. Shed rather die than admit she has a problem. To her, a therapist is for mad people.
They arrived at the upscale restaurant where Victors father, Victor senior, was celebrating his own milestone. Dressed to the nines, guests streamed through glittering doors.
Got here, Victor said, parking. Try not to think about Mum tonight, okay? You know how proud dad was to have us.
Imogen nodded, pulling a compact lipstick from her bag. She needed a quick polish and a forced smile birthdays are birthdays, after all, and no one should see her fretting.
The restaurant buzzed with chatter. Victor senior, a tall silverhaired gentleman with a military bearing, greeted them at the entrance of the banquet hall.
There you are, my tardy ones! he boomed, embracing his son before pulling Imogen into a hug. You look radiant, love!
Happy birthday, Dad, Imogen kissed Victors cheek. Sorry were late I was held up at Mums.
His expression sobered. How is she? Send her my regards. The date clash is a rather awkward coincidence, isnt it?
Yes, a bit awkward, Imogen replied, trying to sound casual. Well have a separate celebration tomorrow.
And little Martha? Victor asked, noting the earlier mention.
Just a mild fever, Imogen said. Nothing serious, but we left her at home.
Good, health comes first, he approved. Come, find your seats everyones waiting.
The hall swelled with music, clinking glasses, and waiters bustling about. Victor chatted animatedly, while Imogen merely smiled, her thoughts drifting back to the cracked wallpaper and the lingering scent of her mothers cake.
During a lull between toasts, Victors mother, Tessa, the elegant lady in a navy sheath, slipped into Imogens view.
Imogen, you look rather glum today, Tessa observed. Everything alright?
Nothings wrong, Imogen replied, forcing a grin. Just a bit worried about Martha. The nanny called her temperature hasnt dropped.
I understand, Tessa said. Children get sick all the time. Itll pass by morning, youll see.
She paused, then lowered her voice. Victor mentioned your mums birthday clash. It must be uncomfortable.
Imogen sighed. Birthdays cant be moved. My mum is complicated.
I get it, Tessa placed a gentle hand on Imogens arm. My own motherinlaw was a tough nut. Whenever we visited, shed find something to criticize my cooking, my parenting, even my shoes. I endured it for years until I realised I couldnt change her, only my reaction.
How did you cope? Imogen asked.
I stopped expecting what she couldnt give, Tessa said plainly. I accepted her as she was, flaws and all, and set clear boundaries. Your mum will never be a pictureperfect mother, but you can choose how to respond.
Imogen frowned. Easier said than done.
Its a start, Tessa replied. You still feel sorry for her, dont you?
Yes, Imogen admitted. Shes probably sitting alone on her birthday, feeling hurt.
Shes not alone, Tessa reminded gently. Shes got a neighbour like Ethel. She chose to stay upset, but thats her right. You have a right to live your life, too.
A toast interrupted them. Glasses rose, voices boomed about family values and the importance of kinship.
Imogen mechanically returned the smile, but the image of her mothers sour face lingered. When the crowd sat down again, she slipped a quick text to the nanny: Hows Martha? The reply pinged instantly: Shes asleep. Temp 37.4°C. No worries.
She then sent a message to Margaret: Happy birthday, Mum. I love you. Ill be back tomorrow with Martha as soon as she feels better.
No reply came for a moment. Just as she began to think Margaret was ignoring her, her phone chirped.
Thanks for the wishes, love. The cake from Ethel was awful storebought, full of chemicals. Yours would have been better. Love, Mum.
A tiny smile tugged at Imogens lips. It was the closest thing to a truce Margaret could manage.
Whats that? Victor asked, noticing her grin.
Mum texted, she showed him the screen. I think shes almost not mad.
Victor snorted. For your mum thats practically a love declaration.
The night rolled on with more toasts, a few embarrassed dances, and a couple of silly games. Gradually, Imogen relaxed, even finding a bit of fun. Tessas advice had stuck: she didnt have to shoulder the whole burden of her mothers expectations.
They left the restaurant late, the city lights casting soft glows on the streets. The nanny called later to say Martha had slept soundly and her fever was almost gone.
Tomorrow morning well pop over to Grandmas, Imogen told Victor, glancing at the sleeping toddler in the back seat. Well give her a proper birthday.
Are you sure? Victor asked, loosening his tie. Maybe give her a few more days to stew? So she appreciates the visit.
No, Imogen said firmly. Shes my mum, quirks and all. I dont want a lingering grudge. Lifes too short for that.
The next morning Imogen baked a honey cake Margarets favourite and dressed Martha in a pretty blue dress. On the way she stopped at a florist and bought a bunch of white chrysanthemums, the flowers Margaret always adored.
Margaret opened the front door as if shed been expecting them all day, her hair brushed into a tidy updo and a fresh dress on.
Grandma! Martha squealed, flinging herself into Margarets arms. Happy birthday! Look what we brought you!
She handed over a clumsily wrapped box of beads shed picked out herself.
Margarets face lit up. She scooped the little girl into her arms.
Martha, love, I thought you were still ill!
Im all better now! the girl announced proudly. The doctor said Im a champion.
Imogen placed the honey cake on the kitchen table and handed Margaret the bouquet.
Happy birthday, Mum, she said, hugging her.
Margaret hugged her back, squeezing tightly. The moment felt warm, and the old grievances seemed to melt like butter on a hot scone.
Come in, quick, she said, bustling to the kitchen. Teas ready, and Ive baked fresh scones. Yesterday Zena brought that horrid store cake full of chemicals. We barely finished it.
Imogen exchanged a look with Martha and winked. Everything was as ordinary as ever, and that was oddly comforting. Mum was mum full of quirks, stubbornness, and a heart that still beat for family. And those fleeting moments together were worth every sigh and smile.
