The hallway of the old council block was as tight and long as a worms gut. Yellowed floral wallpaper clung to the walls and the floor was laid with squeaky parquet that had been installed back in the seventies. The air always carried the scent of boiled cabbage and a faint trace of cats, even though no cat had ever lived in flat7.
MrsMargaret Jones hesitated at the door. She fumbled with the lock for a while, then lingered a minute peering through the peephole before finally pulling it open.
Finally! she exclaimed, pulling her daughter into a hug. I thought you werent coming. Come in quick, Ive got a cake in the oven.
Emily shuffled from foot to foot, clutching a bag containing a present.
Mum, Ive got barely any time. I dropped by just to wish you happy birthday and Ill be off again. Tom is waiting for me in the car.
MrsJoness expression turned from delight to disappointment in an instant.
What do you mean just dropped by? Ive set the table, Ive prepared everything. MrsClarke from the fifth floor will be here, and Vera with her granddaughter. Were waiting for you. A sixtyfiveyear birthday isnt a joke.
Mum, Emily bit her lip nervously, I told you on the phone today is my fatherinlaws seventieth birthday. Were all going to a big celebration at a restaurant. Relatives, friends, colleagues we cant miss it.
So I can skip my own birthday? Margaret pressed her lips together. Am I worse than your fatherinlaw?
Mom, why would you say that? Emily felt cornered. I suggested moving your party to tomorrow, doing it at home with a cake and presents. But you stuck to today, no compromise.
How can I move it? My birthdate is today, not tomorrow! Margaret flapped her hands. MrsClarke is already expecting it, the cake is in the oven. What am I supposed to tell them? That my daughter prefers strangers parties to her own mothers?
The hallway grew stifling. The aroma drifting from the kitchen made Emilys head spin or perhaps it was 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 a party.
A week ago! And I was born when? Yesterday? Margaret snapped. A mothers birthday should be remembered always, not only when a card arrives.
Emily glanced at her watch. Tom had been waiting in the car for fifteen minutes. They were already late.
Mum, I really cant argue now. Here, take the gift, she said, handing over the bag. Its the electric kettle you wanted, with temperature control. And this, she added, pulling an envelope from her purse, is the money for the new coat you liked at The Snow Queen shop.
Margaret didnt take either the kettle or the envelope.
I dont need your handouts, she snapped. I want my own daughters attention. What attention? You didnt even bring little Martha to greet her own grandmother.
Marthas running a fever, thirtyeight point five, Emily replied wearily. I called you this morning, explained. The nanny is looking after her.
A nanny! Margaret exploded, waving her hands. So a grandma isnt good enough? You think I cant handle a granddaughter?
Mom, thats not
A knock sounded at the door. MrsClarke, the neighbour from the fifth floor, stood there in a smart dress, a cake balanced in her hands.
Margie, happy birthday, dear! she shouted, then halted, noticing the tension between mother and daughter. Oh, am I early?
Come in, Clarke! Margaret brightened, forcing a smile. Perfect timing. Meet my daughter, Rose. Shes popped in for a minute to wish me happy birthday and is already off to more important people.
MrsClarke managed a nervous grin. Dont be hard on her, Margaret. Young people have their own lives. Dont hold them back.
Im not holding anyone! Margaret stepped aside dramatically, creating a clear path to the exit. Go on, Rose, hurry off before your fatherinlaw gets offended. As for me, Ill survive Ive been through worse.
Emily stood holding the kettle and envelope, unsure what to do. Her phone vibrated in her pocket Tom must have been wondering where she was.
Mum, please, she whispered, lets not make a scene in front of guests. Ill come back tomorrow with Martha as soon as she feels better, and well have a proper family celebration.
Strangers? Margaret arched an eyebrow. Clarke is closer to me than most relatives. She visits, asks after my health. Some people only drop by once a month, shove a tenpound tip and disappear. Thats not what I need.
MrsClarke shifted from foot to foot, clearly regretting being caught in the family drama.
Ill go to the kitchen and set the kettle up, she muttered, hurrying away.
Fine, Emily said, placing the kettle on the side table and the envelope beside it. I understand, Mum. Im sorry I cant stay. Happy birthday. She kissed her mother on the cheek and slipped out before another harsh word could be spoken.
The stairwell smelled of damp and dust. Emily leaned against the wall, inhaled deeply, and tried to calm herself.
The phone buzzed again. This time she answered.
Yes, Tom, Im on my way down.
Whats taking you so long? his voice sounded worried. Were already twenty minutes late.
Just the usual, Emily replied shortly. Ill explain later.
She descended the creaky stairs and stepped outside. Toms Toyota sat waiting, his fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel.
Hows it going? he asked as she got into the passenger seat.
Didnt say happy birthday, Emily said, fastening her seatbelt. She told me Im not her daughter because Im going to your dads birthday instead of staying with her.
Tom sighed. Again? Maybe you should have stayed.
What would that change? Emily slumped back. Tomorrow shed find another reason to be upset the gift was wrong, Martha was too noisy, I dont visit often. It never ends, Tom.
He started the engine and they pulled away.
Remember last year? Emily began. I cancelled our seaside trip to throw her a birthday. I set the table, invited her friends. She spent the whole evening complaining the cake was storebought, full of chemicals, and said I didnt care about her health.
I remember, Tom said, turning onto the main road. You were a wreck for a week after.
When Martha was born, Emily mused, staring out the window at passing houses, instead of helping, she kept criticizing: Youre feeding her wrong, youre dressing her wrong, youre holding her wrong. Then shed be mad that I rarely asked her to look after her granddaughter.
Maybe we should see a therapist? Tom suggested, glancing at her. With your mum too?
Emily gave a wry smile. Shed rather die than admit she has relationship issues. To her, a therapist is for lunatics.
They arrived at the restaurant where Victor Stevensons seventieth birthday was already underway. Dressed guests streamed through doors lit with sparkling lights.
Were here, Tom said, parking the car. Try not to think about your mum tonight, alright? You know how Dad has been looking forward to this.
Emily nodded, pulling a lipstick from her bag. She needed to polish herself and wear a smile a birthday is still a birthday, and no one should see her upset.
Inside, the room buzzed with chatter. Victor Stevenson, a tall silverhaired man with a military bearing, greeted them at the entrance of the banquet hall.
Ah, my latecomers! he exclaimed, embracing his son first and then his daughterinlaw. Emily, you look wonderful!
Happy birthday, Dad, Emily kissed her fatherinlaw on the cheek. Sorry were late, I was held up at my mums.
Victors face grew serious. How is she? Send her my regards. Its a strange coincidence with the dates.
Yes, odd, Emily replied, trying to sound casual. Well have a separate celebration with her tomorrow.
And Martha? Victor asked. Tom mentioned shes under the weather.
Just a fever, Emily said. Nothing serious, a common cold. We left her at home just in case.
Right, a childs health comes first, he agreed. Please, join the table; everyones already gathered.
Music played, waiters floated past with drinks, and guests laughed loudly. Tom mingled, but Emily only pretended to enjoy herself, her thoughts drifting back to the council flat with its yellowed wallpaper, where her mother was probably still griping to MrsClarke about an ungrateful daughter.
During a lull between toasts, Victors mother, Tatiana Whitaker, elegant in a navy dress, slipped into the seat opposite Emily.
Emily, you look a bit down today, she observed. Is something wrong?
Emily forced a smile. No, nothing. Just worrying about Martha. The nanny called; the fever isnt dropping.
I understand, Tatiana said. Kids get sick often; itll pass by morning.
She paused, then lowered her voice. Victor told me about your mum and the birthday clash. I feel rather awkward.
Emily exhaled. What does that have to do with me? A birthday is a birthday; you cant move it. My mum is just complicated.
I get it, Tatiana replied, gently touching Emilys hand. My own mother was difficult. Every visit shed find a reason to criticize: Youre a bad housewife, a bad mother, you dress poorly. I suffered for years. Eventually I realised I cant change another person, only my reaction to them.
How do you do that? Emily asked.
Stop expecting something you cant get, Tatiana said simply. Accept people as they are, flaws and all, and set boundaries. Your mum will never be the perfect mother from a book. Shell be demanding, hurtful, manipulative thats her choice. Your choice is how you respond.
Emily thought about this. It sounds easy, but how?
You have to stop waiting for what she cant give, Tatiana continued. Give yourself permission to live your own life, make your own decisions, and prioritise your wellbeing.
Emily felt a pang of sympathy. I still feel sorry for her. Shes sitting alone on her birthday, upset.
Shes not alone, Tatiana reminded her. She has you, even if she chooses to be angry. Its her right to feel that way, but you also have a right to your own life.
A toast interrupted them. Everyone stood, glasses raised, and Victors cousin delivered a heartfelt speech about family values and the importance of kinship.
Emily smiled mechanically, nodding, while the image of her mothers angry, solitary face lingered. When the crowd sat down again, she slipped her phone out and texted the nanny: Hows Martha? The reply came instantly: Sleeping. Temp 37.4°C. No worries.
She then sent a message to her mother: Happy birthday, Mum. I love you. Ill come tomorrow with Martha as soon as she feels better.
There was a long pause before a reply buzzed back. Thanks for the wishes. Zenas storebought cake was awful, full of chemicals. Yours would have been better. Love, Mum.
Emily found herself smiling despite herself. It was the closest thing to reconciliation her mother, Margaret, could manage.
Whats that? Tom asked, noticing the grin.
My mum texted, Emily showed him the screen. Shes almost not angry anymore.
Tom chuckled. For your mum thats practically a love letter.
The evening went on with toasts, dancing, and a few games. Gradually Emily relaxed, even began to enjoy herself. She realised the motherinlaws advice made sense: you cant keep blaming yourself for not meeting someone elses expectations, even if that someone is your own mother.
They left the restaurant late, the nanny later confirming that Marthas fever had almost normalised.
The next morning well drive to Grandmas, Emily said, tucking a blanket around the sleeping child. Well give her a proper birthday.
Are you sure? Tom asked, loosening his tie. Maybe let her stew a bit longer so she appreciates you more.
No, Emily said firmly. Shes my mum, flaws and all. I dont want a rift between us. Lifes too short for that.
The following day Emily baked her mums favourite honey cake, dressed Martha in a pretty dress, and set off for the family birthday. On the way she bought a bunch of white chrysanthemums her mums favourite flowers.
Margaret opened the door as if shed been waiting on the threshold, a fresh dress on, hair neatly done for the occasion.
Grandma! Martha shrieked, throwing her arms around Margaret. Happy birthday! Look what we brought you!
She handed over a clumsily wrapped box of beads shed chosen herself.
Margarets face lit up as she lifted her granddaughter into her arms. Martha! I thought you were still ill!
Im fine now, the little girl declared proudly. The doctor said Im a champion.
Emily placed the honey cake on the side table and handed her mother the bouquet of chrysanthemums.
Happy birthday, Mum, she whispered, embracing her.
Margaret held Emily tightly, and for a moment the old grievances melted away. Come in quickly, she said, bustling to the kitchen. Teas ready, and the scones are fresh. Yesterday Zina brought that dreadful storebought cake full of chemicals. We barely finished it.
Emily exchanged a glance with Martha and gave her a mischievous wink. Everything felt ordinary, and the irritation that had once bubbled under her skin now turned into a warm smile. Mum was still mum, with all her quirks and a hardwon temperament, and those moments together were worth cherishing, because they never last forever.
