Andrew Hughes trudged home down a dim lane in Manchester, where puddles halfconcealed by fallen oak leaves caught the occasional flicker of a streetlamp. Late autumn in the north of England isnt exactly a strollinthepark: a chill wind cut straight to the bone, and the houses seemed farther away and indifferent. He quickened his pace as if trying to outrun an invisible cloud that had hovered over him since sunrise. Tomorrow was his birthdaya date hed grown adept at ignoring.
Inside him a familiar pressure built: not a joyful anticipation but a heavy, sticky knot in his chest. Every year the same routineformal messages, brief calls from colleagues, obliged smiles. It felt like a foreign play where he was forced to play the birthday hero, despite having long since stopped feeling any heroism.
Once, things had been different. As a boy, Andrew would wake early, heart thudding, waiting for the day with the belief that a tiny miracle was coming the scent of mums sponge cake with buttercream, the rustle of wrapping paper, mums warm voice, and the chatter of guests around the table. Back then congratulations meant genuine laughter and a clatter of plates. Nowadays those memories surface rarely, and each visit leaves a faint ache.
He fumbled the blocks front door; a damp gust slapped his cheek harder. The hallway greeted him with the usual chaos: a wet umbrella propped against the wall, jackets haphazardly draped on the coat rack. Andrew slipped off his shoes and lingered at the mirror; his reflection showed weeks of fatigue and something elsea fleeting sadness for a lost sense of celebration.
Are you home? called his wife, Cressida, from the kitchen before he could answer.
Yeah he muttered.
Theyd long ago settled into these curt evening exchanges: each minding their own business, meeting only over dinner or a cup of tea before bed. Their family ran on routinereliable, a touch dull.
Andrew changed into his loungewear and shuffled into the kitchen where fresh bread still lingered in the air; Cressida was slicing carrots for a salad.
Will there be many guests tomorrow? he asked, almost without inflection.
Just the usual you never liked noisy gatherings maybe well just have the three of us? Invite your mate Harold.
Andrew gave a silent nod and poured himself a mug of tea. His thoughts tangled: he understood Cressidas logicwhy throw a proper party for the sake of a checkbox? Yet something inside bristled at this adultlevel skimping on feelings.
The evening drifted slowly; Andrew flicked through news on his phone, trying to dodge the nagging thoughts of the next day. Still, the same question kept resurfacing: why had the birthday become a formality? Where had the joy gone?
In the morning his phone blared a cascade of workchat notifications; colleagues sent the standard Happy Birthday! stickers and GIFs. A handful of people managed a slightly warmer line, but all the messages blended together until they were practically transparent.
He reflexively typed Thanks! or dropped a smiley. The emptiness only grew: Andrew caught himself wanting to shove the phone away and pretend his birthday didnt exist until next year.
Cressida turned up the kettle a notch louder, trying to drown the quiet that settled over the kitchen table.
Happy birthday Fancy ordering pizza or sushi tonight? I dont fancy standing at the stove all day.
Whatever you like he replied, a hint of irritation slipping through. He immediately regretted the tone, but said nothing more. Inside, frustration simmeredboth at himself and at the world.
Around midday Harold rang.
Hey! Happy birthday! See you later?
Yeah swing by after work.
Great! Ill bring something for tea.
The call ended as briskly as it began, leaving Andrew oddly weary of these brief encountersas if they existed not for him, but because thats just how things are done.
The day passed in a halfsleep, the flat smelling of coffee mixed with the damp from the hallways wet coats. Outside, a drizzle persisted. Andrew tried to work from home, but his mind kept drifting back to childhood, when any celebration felt like the event of the year; now it dissolved into another checkbox on the calendar.
By evening his mood had turned decidedly heavy. He finally admitted to himself that he no longer wanted to endure this hollow calm for the sake of everyone else. He didnt want to put on a show for his wife or his friend even if it felt awkward or a bit foolish to voice his feelings out loud.
When they all gathered around the kitchen table beneath the soft glow of a desk lamp, rain drummed the windows with a particular vigor, as if underscoring the cramped world theyd created on a November night.
Andrew sat mute; his tea grew cold, his words stuck in his throat. He glanced first at Cressida, who offered a tired smile across the table, then at Harold, who was scrolling on his phone and barely nodding to the music leaking from the next room.
And then, with a sigh that seemed to release a small pressure valve, he spoke.
Listen Ive got something to say.
Cressida set her spoon down; Harold lifted his head.
Ive always thought birthdays were a bit silly when theyre just for the sake of ticking a box but tonight I realised something else.
The room fell so quiet that even the rain sounded louder.
I miss a proper celebration the kind from childhood when you wait all year and everything feels possible.
He swallowed, his throat catching on the words.
Cressida looked at him intently.
Do you want to try bringing that back?
Andrew gave a barely perceptible nod.
Harold grinned warmly.
Now I see why youve been moaning all these years!
A lightness rose in Andrews chest.
Well then, Harold said, rubbing his palms together, lets reminisce about that cake with buttercream you used to rave about.
Cressida, without asking, ambled to the fridge. There was no sponge cake or cream, but she produced a pack of plain biscuits and a jar of strawberry jam. Andrew cracked a smile; the gesture was absurd and utterly human. On the table appeared a modest platter of biscuits, a jug of jam, and a small bowl of condensed milk. Harold, with mock seriousness, held his hands to his chin.
A quick cake! Got any candles?
Cressida rummaged through a drawer of odds and ends and produced the stub of a paraffin candle, trimmed it with a knife until a crooked wick stared back. They stuck it into a makeshift mountain of biscuits. Andrew stared at the humble creation and felt a flicker of the oldtime excitement.
Music? Harold asked.
Not the radioplay what our parents used to listen to, Andrew replied.
Harold fumbled with his phone while Cressida fired up an old playlist on the laptop. Voices from the 80s and 90s floated in, weaving with the rains patter outside. It was ridiculous watching grownups stage a tiny hometheatre for one, yet the pretense of formal birthday greetings vanished. Everyone did what they knew: Cressida poured tea into sturdy mugs, Harold clapped offbeat to the music, and Andrew found himself smiling for real, not just politeness.
The flat grew warmer. Fogged windows reflected the lamps amber glow and the street beyond, still drizzling. Andrew now saw the rain not as a dreary backdrop but as a distant soundtrack to his own little weather.
Remember the game Charades? Cressida asked suddenly.
Of course! I always lost
It wasnt because I was bad, just because we laughed far too long.
They tried a round at the table. At first it was awkwarda grown man miming a kangaroo for two other adultsbut within minutes genuine laughter erupted. Harold flailed his arms so wildly he almost knocked over his tea, Cressida giggled bright and airy, and Andrew finally let go of his poker face.
They swapped stories of childhood parties: the kid who hid a slice of cake under a napkin for a second helping, the time a family china set shattered and nobody even scolded. Each recollection peeled away the heavy cloud of formality, replacing it with something cosy and warm. Time stopped feeling like an enemy.
Andrew sensed that childhood feeling againthe sense that anything was possible, at least for one evening. He looked at Cressida with gratitude for her simple, wordless care, and caught Harolds eye across the table, finding understanding without a hint of mockery.
The music cut out abruptly. Outside, a few car headlights skimmed the wet pavement. The flat felt like an island of light in a gloomy autumn.
Cressida poured another cup of tea.
Looks like Ive still managed to do it my way but the script isnt the point, right?
Andrew nodded, speechless.
He recalled his morning dread, the notion that a birthday had to disappoint or pass him by. Now it seemed a distant misunderstanding. No one expected perfect reactions or grand gestures; no one pushed him to celebrate just for the calendars sake.
Harold dug out an old board game from the cupboard.
Now were really taking a trip back!
They played into the late hours, bickering over rules and laughing at each others ridiculous moves. Outside, the rain tapped a lullaby.
Later the three sat in companionable silence beneath the lamps soft light. Crumbs of biscuits and an empty jamstained mug were the only evidence of their impromptu feast.
Andrew realised he had nothing left to prove to anyonenot even to himself. The celebration had returned not because someone bought the perfect cake or drafted a flawless programme, but because the people around him were ready to hear him, truly.
He turned to Cressida.
Thanks
She returned a smile that lived just in her eyes.
Inside there was calmno frenzy, no forced cheer, just the right kind of evening in the right place with the right people. Outside, the damp city went on its way; inside it was warm and bright.
Andrew rose, walked to the window, and watched the streetlights glint on the puddles. The rain fell slowly, as if tired of arguing with November. He thought of that childhood wonder: it had always been a simple affair of closehanded love.
That night he drifted off easily, without the urgent urge to forget his own birthday.
