My son never came for my seventieth birthday, citing work. That evening I saw on Facebook him celebrating his motherinlaws birthday in a restaurant.
The phone rang precisely at noon, slicing the thick, tense silence of waiting.
Margaret Smith snatched the receiver, instinctively smoothing an imagined crease from the festive tablecloth.
David? My son?
Mum, hello. Happy birthday to you.
Davids voice was weary, a muffled crackle like someone speaking from a cellar.
Mum, please dont be angry. I cant. Not at all.
Margaret froze. Her eyes lingered on the crystal shrimp salad bowl shed been fussing over since dawn.
How can you not? David, Im seventy. A jubilee.
I understand. But theres a forcemajeure. The project deadline is burning, you know our field. The partners are wild, everything rests on me.
But you promised
Mum, its work, not a whim. I simply cant drop everything and let the team down. I cant break free.
Silence settled in the handset, filled only with the lines hum.
Ill pop by next week, just the two of us. Okay? Kisses.
A few short beeps.
Margaret placed the receiver down slowly. Seventy. Forcemajeure.
The evening dissolved into mist. Neighbour Lena dropped by with a slab of dark Cadbury chocolate. We sipped a shot of whisky for the mood. Margaret forced a smile, nodded, talked about a TV series, but the celebration shrank to the size of her kitchen and faded before it could even begin.
Late that night, in an old bathrobe, she picked up a tablet. Mechanical fingers swiped open the Facebook feed. Strange cottages, cats, recipes flickered past.
And then a sudden, painful flash.
Veronicas profile, his daughterinlaw. A fresh post, twenty minutes old.
A restaurant The Rose & Crown or something similarly posh. Golden scrollwork, waiters in white gloves, live music, crystal glasses. Veronica, her mother Polly Anderson, radiant in pearls, clutching a towering bouquet of red roses. And David, in a crisp light shirt, hugging his motherinlaw. He smiled. The very same David whod spoken of forcemajeure and wild partners.
Margaret zoomed in. Warm, flushed faces filled the screen. Caption: Celebrating our dear mums birthday! 65! Moved to the weekend for everyones convenience!
Convenience.
She remembered perfectlythe birthday she had marked for the previous Tuesday, the week before. Theyd moved it. To her jubilee. To her seventieth.
She scrolled further. David raised a glass, proposing a toast. He and Veronica laughed, heads thrown back. On the table: oysters, wine, lavish canapés.
Work.
She stared at her sons relaxed, satisfied face. The problem wasnt the restaurant, nor the bouquet that would never fit her vase. The problem was the lie. A cold, calm, everyday lie.
Margaret closed the tablet. The room, scented with untouched dishes, seemed empty. Her seventieth had become an inconvenient date, a day that could be shifted for someone elses celebration.
Monday morning greeted her with the sour smell of spoiled leftovers. The jelly she had boiled for nearly a day was sour. The shrimp salad had sunk into a river of mayonnaise. The roast pork was slick with a film of slime.
She hauled out a large waste bin. Methodically, plate after plate, she threw her jubilee into it her work, her expectations. Rolls of aubergine shed loved, slices of her signature Napoleon cake, each spoonful echoing a dull ache beneath her heart.
It wasnt just an insult. It was erasure. Shed been crossed outcourteously, under the pretext of forcemajeure.
She washed the dishes, lugged the heavy, treacherous box out, and waited. Hed promised to drop by next week.
The phone rang only on Wednesday.
Mum, hi! How are you? Sorry, Ive been swamped.
Im fine, David.
Listen, Im bringing a present. Ill swing by in fifteen minutes, then Veronica will pick us up tickets.
Tickets?
To the new West End show Veronica booked.
He arrived an hour later, slinging a heavy box onto the table.
Here. Happy anniversary again.
On the box: a humidifier with ionisation.
Thank you, she whispered, setting the gift down. Veronica chose it, very nice for health.
He drifted into the kitchen, poured water straight from the tap.
Mum, why isnt there anything to eat?
I threw it all away on Monday.
David frowned.
You couldve called; I wouldve taken it
Margaret stared at him, silent. She, ever ready to excuse, wonderedmaybe Veronica had coerced him. Maybe he didnt want to. Maybe he didnt know.
But he stood there, still lying.
David.
Yes?
I saw the photos.
He froze, glass in hand, turning slowly.
Which photos?
From the restaurant on Saturday, on Veronicas page.
His face twitched, then hardened.
Ah, I see. Well, it started
You said it was work.
Mum, what does it matter?
The difference is you lied to me.
David slammed the glass onto the table with such force the water splashed over the edge.
I didnt lie! I had work! I was up all night until Friday!
And Saturday?
Saturday Veronica threw a party for her mum! You know Veronica she wants everything just right! What was I supposed to do?
His voice rose, sharp.
Did I have to tear myself apart? I didnt want to go anywhere! Im exhausted!
Margaret watched, silent. This was her grown, fortyyearold son, shouting only because shed caught him in a lie.
You could have simply told the truth, David. Said, Mum, I wont come; were celebrating Pollys birthday.
And what would that have changed? he shouted. That youd nag me for a week?
So you dont nag me, he snarled. Thats the whole point.
Mum, this is family. My family. I had to be there. Do you want me to start problems with Veronica because of this?
He glared with a hidden fury, defending himself by making her the guilty party.
A bell rang at the door.
Oh, Veronicas here. Thats it, Mum, Im done.
He grabbed his coat.
Figure out the humidifier, theres an instruction manual. Its a useful thing.
He bolted out, leaving her alone in the kitchen. Margaret stared at the wet ring the glass had left on the table. The knot tightened.
Her attempt at a calm, adult conversation had collapsed. He hadnt merely lied hed chosen lying as the easiest way to speak to her. And her jubilee had become a mere inconvenience.
A week passed in a strange, cottonlike stasis. Margaret finally unpacked the useful thing. She wrestled with the manual, filled the tank, plugged it in.
The device whirred, a soft blue glow lit the room, and a steady, deafening hum filled the air. The scent or rather its absence settled. The usual home aroma of old books, dried herbs and a dash of Red Moscow perfume shed once sprayed on a lamp turned sterile, colourless, dead.
It was as if someone had come and bleached her house with chlorine, erasing every trace of her life. She tried to get used to it. Veronica chose it, she muttered.
The device hissed, glowed, ionised the air, yet Margaret felt it was harder to breathe in this new, purified atmosphere. She opened a window, but the sterility mixed with a frosty draft, making it colder and more lifeless.
On Sunday she dusted the sideboard. Her hand brushed a frame. Inside, a photo from fifty years ago: David, then a lanky university student, hugging her shoulders, smiling with tousled hair and sincere eyes.
On the back, faded ink: To the best and dearest mum in the world! Your son.
Margaret sank onto the sofa, looking at the smiling boy, listening to the relentless hum of the air purifier.
There he wasthe real son who used to send postcards and give mimosa for scholarships. And there was the useful thing delivered by a tired man, a token meant to silence her.
Her ideals, the belief that hes good, just forced, crumbled, seen coldly, as if under a scalpel.
She picked up the phone.
David, hello?
Mum? Everything okay? his voice carried the familiar worry.
Yes. Please come.
I have plans, Mum. Veronica
Come. Bring back Veronicas gift.
A pause.
What do you mean bring back?
It means I dont need it. Come.
She hung up.
He arrived forty minutes later, angry, flushed, eyes empty, stepping over the threshold.
He slipped into the kitchen, perched on a stool. Margaret kept the lights off, stood nearby.
She said if I go to you now I might never return.
He stared at the table.
I Mum, Im sorry.
He lifted his eyes.
I didnt want to lie.
But you did.
Nika said youd get upset either way. If I tell the truth youll be angry, if I lie youll be calm. Simpler that way.
Margaret stayed silent. The web of manipulation spun itself, simpler.
She said your jubilee is nothing special. Not like Polly Andersons party, the status What about you? Neighbour Lena?
And you? Margaret asked quietly. Did you think the same?
David was silent for a long while.
Im exhausted, Mum. Im tired of everything
He covered his face with his hands.
I just wanted everyone happy. It turned out
He sighed, a manly sigh.
Forgive me for not coming. I should have. Im indebted to you.
She looked at his hunched back. Her faith in ideals hadnt vanished completely he was still her boy, just a weary, lost one.
Margaret placed her hand on his shouldernot for instant forgiveness, but for support.
Its up to you, David. How you live now.
I dont know.
But with me, only honesty.
He nodded, eyes downcast.
May I just sit here a while?
Sit.
She fetched an old favourite mug and a teapot.
Half a year later.
Margarets flat had long shed the sterile odor of that useful thing. The air now smelled of books, valourcress and dried lavender again.
After that night much had changed. No, David didnt leave Veronica Margaret never expected that. They shared a mortgage, habits, a convenient coexistence. Manipulators dont release their victim easily.
But David did change. He began coming over, not just for a quick fifteenminute dash, but genuinely.
Every Saturday after lunch hed bring market cheese or her beloved cherry roll. Theyd sit at the kitchen table, sip tea, hed chat about work, colleagues, the car he wanted to replace. He never complained about Veronica again. He never lied again.
Margaret changed too. Her naive belief in her sons flawless innocence faded. She no longer waited for his call as a verdict or absolution. She simply lived.
Before her there was no longer a student David, but a grown, exhausted man trying to keep balance. Their relationship grew more complicated, yet honest. She reclaimed not just her son, but her dignity.
One Saturday, while they were sharing tea and that same cherry roll, Davids phone rang. Margaret saw Neko on the screen, tensed, but calmly stirred sugar into her cup.
David inhaled deeply and pressed send.
Yes, Neko.
He listened in silence. His face went gray again.
No, Im at Mums.
Veronica, I told her Id be at Mums on Saturday. We agreed.
He closed his eyes.
That doesnt mean I dont care. It means Im at Mums. Ill be there this evening, as promised.
He set the phone facedown. Silence hung.
Sorry, Mum.
Its fine, son, Margaret replied gently. Have another slice of roll.
David looked at her. In his eyes a new thing glimmered gratitude. He didnt ask for advice, didnt justify himself.
He simply chose. To be there. To drink tea in her kitchen.
Margaret watched him reach for the roll and understood that night was not an end. It was a beginning.
Her seventieth, once missed, became the point of his maturation. The son she had adored finally stopped being a child.
What do you think of this tale?
