Eleanor Thompson dried her hands on her apron and glanced again at the clock. Half past six. Evelyn should have been home from work by now; she’d promised six o’clock. Tomorrow was Eleanor’s fifty-fifth birthday, and they’d planned to prepare the celebration supper together.
«Mum, I’m home!» Evelyn’s voice sounded from the hallway, weary, lacking its usual cheer.
Evelyn entered the kitchen, tossed her bag onto a chair, and went straight for the fridge and a glass of water. Eleanor instantly noticed her daughter was upset. Thirty-two years of motherhood had taught her to read Evelyn’s mood at a glance.
«What’s happened, darling?» Eleanor asked, sitting opposite her. «You’re not yourself today.»
«It’s nothing, Mum,» Evelyn avoided her mother’s gaze. «Just tired from work. The new manager is exhausting, demanding daily reports.»
«Well, alright then,» Eleanor decided not to press. «Shall we start cooking? I’ve taken the meat out of the freezer, peeled the potatoes. Thought we might make a bake; you do love my cheesy bake.»
Evelyn nodded silently and began washing her hands at the sink. They’d cooked together every year since Evelyn’s divorce. It had become their tradition – spending the eve of Eleanor’s birthday together in the kitchen, chatting and laughing about everything under the sun.
«Remember last year when we burned the pie?» Eleanor tried to lighten the mood. «We chatted so much we didn’t notice it going black in the oven.»
«I remember,» Evelyn answered softly, chopping onions. «Mum, let’s make something simpler tonight? I really am terribly tired.»
A pang shot through Eleanor’s heart. Something was definitely wrong. Evelyn never refused to cook together, especially before a celebration. Usually, she suggested trying something new and special.
«Of course, darling,» Eleanor agreed. «Then we’ll just fry potatoes and meat, make a simple salad.»
They cooked in silence. Eleanor felt a wall between them. Evelyn answered curtly, avoiding eye contact, constantly busying herself – finishing an onion, needlessly wiping the pan.
«Evelyn,» Eleanor couldn’t hold back as they sat down to eat, «please tell me what’s wrong? I can see you’re upset. Is it work? Or have you had words with Ben?»
Ben was Evelyn’s new boyfriend. They’d been seeing each other for six months, and Eleanor had grown fond of him. A pleasant man, polite, and Evelyn seemed quite attached.
«Ben’s fine,» Evelyn pushed potato around her plate with her fork. «Mum, honestly, I’m just exhausted. I’ll rest tomorrow, and it’ll all be fine.»
After supper, Evelyn washed up and said she’d head home early.
«Early?» Eleanor was surprised. «What about tea? I baked that cake yesterday, your favourite, with cherries.»
«We’ll have tea and cake tomorrow,» Evelyn was already putting on her coat. «At your celebration. With guests.»
«What guests?» Eleanor was bewildered. «We agreed it would just be us tomorrow. Quietly, at home.»
Evelyn froze at the door, her back turned.
«Well… I thought… maybe Ben could come? And Auntie Margaret, she always asks about your birthday.»
«Evelyn,» Eleanor walked over to her daughter, «you’re hiding something from me. I feel it. We’ve always told each other everything, since you were little. What’s happened?»
Evelyn turned around, and Eleanor saw her eyes were swimming with tears.
«Mum, honestly, it’s okay. Just… we’ll talk tomorrow, alright? But now, I truly am exhausted.»
She quickly kissed her mother’s cheek and left, leaving Eleanor alone with anxious thoughts.
She couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning, she wondered what could upset Evelyn so. Trouble at work? But she’d surely have said. A row with Ben? Didn’t seem likely; they’d been laughing together on the phone only yesterday.
Or health problems? A chill ran down her spine at the thought. Dear God, not that. Evelyn was her only child, the most precious thing in her life. Since her husband’s death, Evelyn had been everything – friend, support, reason for living.
The next morning, Eleanor rose early, tidied herself, and put on her favourite dress. It was her birthday after all; she should look festive. She took out the good tablecloth and set out her best china. Perhaps Evelyn was simply overtired yesterday and today would be normal.
At half ten, the phone rang.
«Mummy, happy birthday!» Tension laced Evelyn’s voice. «How are you? Feeling festive?»
«Thank you, darling. Waiting for you. What time will you be here?»
«I… Mum, I’ll be a bit late. I’ve got… some things to sort. Around two, okay?»
«Of course, come then. I’ll lay the table, have everything ready.»
«Good. And Mum… Ben’s coming with me, you don’t mind?»
«Not at all, dear. I’d be pleased.»
Eleanor put the phone down; her heart gave a lurch. Something about Evelyn’s tone unnerved her. She’d asked about Ben too cautiously, almost apologising in advance.
Time dragged. Eleanor cooked Evelyn’s favourite dishes, set the table, changed her clothes again. She watched the window and waited. They weren’t there by two. Nor by half past.
Finally, at three o’clock, she heard familiar footsteps on the stairs. Evelyn’s voice, and a man’s – Ben’s.
«Mum, we’re here!» Evelyn entered first, followed by Ben holding flowers.
«Eleanor, happy birthday!» Ben offered the bouquet and kissed her cheek awkwardly. «Wishing you health, happiness, and many more years.»
«Thank you, Ben,» she accepted the flowers and looked at her daughter. Evelyn stood, eyes downcast, twisting the handle of her bag.
They sat down. Eleanor poured tea, offered food, tried to keep conversation flowing, but she felt on edge. Evelyn barely touched her food, answered distractedly, and Ben kept glancing at Evelyn with a guilty look.
«Well then,» Eleanor said finally, «let’s cut the cake. I’ll blow out candles, make a wish.»
«Mum, wait,» Evelyn stopped her. «I… we have a present for you.»
«A present?» her mother brightened. «You shouldn’t have spent money, darling.»
Evelyn took a small gift box from her bag and handed it over, her hands trembling.
«It’s… it’s not exactly a present,» she whispered. «It’s more… news.»
Eleanor took the box and unwrapped it. Inside was something tiny, wrapped in cloth. She unfolded it and saw miniature knitted booties. White, delicate, impossibly small.
«What are these?» she didn’t understand.
«Mum,» Evelyn looked up, her eyes filling, «I’m pregnant. Ben and I… we
Margaret Wilson dried her hands on a tea towel and glanced again at the clock. Half past six. Her daughter should have been home from work by now; she’d promised to be back by six. Today was special—her fifty-fifth birthday was tomorrow, and they’d planned to cook the celebratory dinner together.
«Mum, I’m home!» came a voice from the hallway, sounding weary, not cheerful like usual.
Emily entered the kitchen, dropped her bag on a chair, and went straight to the fridge for water. Margaret noticed immediately that her daughter was upset. After thirty-two years of motherhood, she could read Emily’s mood with a single glance.
«What’s wrong, love?» asked Margaret, sitting down opposite her. «You seem out of sorts today.»
«Everything’s fine, Mum,» Emily avoided her gaze. «Just tired from work. That new boss is running me ragged, demanding daily reports.»
«Right then,» Margaret decided not to push it. «Shall we cook? I’ve got the meat out of the freezer, potatoes peeled. Fancy my cheese-topped bake? You always loved it.»
Emily nodded silently and began washing her hands at the sink. They’d cooked together on the eve of Margaret’s birthday every year since Emily’s divorce. It was their tradition—an evening chatting and laughing over old stories.
«Remember last year when we scorched the pie?» Margaret tried to lighten the mood. «Got so caught up talking we didn’t see it burning in the oven.»
«I remember,» Emily answered quietly, chopping an onion. «Mum, how about something simpler tonight? I’m really shattered.»
Margaret’s heart sank. Something was definitely wrong. Emily never refused their birthday cooking ritual. She usually suggested trying a new, special recipe herself.
«Of course, love,» Margaret agreed. «We’ll just fry some potatoes and meat, make a simple salad.»
They cooked in silence. Margaret felt an invisible wall between them. Emily gave one-word answers, looked down often, busying herself—peeling more onion or wiping a pan unnecessarily.
«Emily, love,» Margaret couldn’t hold back during dinner, «tell me what’s wrong? I see you’re upset. Work again? Did you and Paul row?»
Paul was Emily’s boyfriend. They’d been together six months, and Margaret had grown fond of him. He was pleasant, polite, and clearly cared for Emily.
«Paul’s fine,» Emily pushed potatoes around her plate. «Honestly Mum, just tired. I’ll be fine tomorrow after a rest.»
After clearing up, Emily said she’d head home early.
«Early?» Margaret was surprised. «No tea? I baked your favourite cherry sponge yesterday.»
«We’ll have cake tomorrow,» Emily was already putting on her coat. «At the party. With everyone.»
«Everyone?» Margaret was confused. «We agreed it’d be quiet, just us two tomorrow.»
Emily froze at the door, her back turned.
«Well… I thought… maybe invite Paul? And Auntie Gloria. She always asks about your birthday.»
«Emily,» Margaret walked towards her, «you’re keeping something from me. I feel it. We’ve always told each other everything since you were little. What’s happened?»
Emily turned around, her eyes brimming.
«Mum, truly, it’s okay. Just… we’ll talk tomorrow, alright? I’m shattered tonight.»
She quickly kissed Margaret’s cheek and left, leaving her alone with anxious thoughts.
Margaret barely slept. Tossing and turning, she wondered what was upsetting Emily. Work trouble? But she’d have shared that. A fight with Paul? Didn’t seem likely; they’d been laughing on the phone the day before.
Could it be her health? Chills ran down Margaret’s spine. Oh Lord, not that. Emily was her only child, her whole world since her husband passed—friend, support, life’s purpose.
Margaret rose early next morning, freshened up, and put on her favourite dress. It was her birthday after all; she wanted to look festive. She laid the best tablecloth, set out the good china. Maybe Emily was simply overtired yesterday; today would be back to normal.
The phone rang at half past ten.
«Mum, happy birthday!» Emily’s voice held tension. «How are you? How’s the mood?»
«Thank you, darling. Waiting for you. What time?»
«I… Mum, I’ll be a bit late. Got a few… things. Around two, alright?»
«Of course. I’ll have lunch ready.»
«Good. And Mum… Paul’s coming too. Hope that’s okay?»
«Absolutely fine. I’d be glad to see him.»
Margaret hung up, her heart skipping a beat. Something in Emily’s tone troubled her—especially the hesitant way she’d asked about Paul, like an apology in advance.
Time dragged. Margaret cooked all Emily’s favourites, set the table, changed again. She watched the window, waiting. Two o’clock came and went. Half two. Nothing.
Finally, at three, familiar footsteps sounded on the stairs: Emily’s, and a man’s—Paul’s.
«Mum, we’re here!» Emily entered first, followed by Paul holding a bouquet.
«Margaret, happy birthday!» Paul offered the flowers and kissed her cheek awkwardly. «Wishing you health, happiness, and a long life.»
«Thank you, Paul,» she took the flowers, searching Emily’s face. Emily stood gazing at her shoes, twisting her bag strap.
Sitting down to eat, Margaret poured tea, offered the feast, tried to keep conversation flowing. But she felt on edge. Emily barely ate, answered distractedly, and Paul kept glancing at her with a guilty look.
«Right then,» Margaret finally said, «let’s have cake. Blow out candles, make a wish.»
«Mum, wait,» Emily stopped her. «We… we have a present for you.»
«You didn’t need to spend money, love,» Margaret smiled, brightening.
«It’s… not quite a present,» Emily said softly, pulling a small, neatly wrapped box from her bag. Her hands shook. «It’s more… news.»
Margaret took the box, carefully unwrapped it. Inside lay a tiny item wrapped in tissue. Unfolding it, she saw miniature, knitted white booties.
«What’s this?» she asked, confused.
«Mum,» Emily looked up, tears welling, «I’m pregnant. Paul and I… we’re getting married.»
Margaret stared at the booties, unsure what she felt. Joy? Shock? Fear? All tangled together.
«Pregnant?» she echoed. «How far along?»
«Three months,» Emily wiped her eyes. «Mum, I know it’s a shock. We weren’t planning it. But we want the baby. We’re getting married.»
«Getting married?» Margaret looked at Paul. «When?»
«In a month,» he answered. «Registry office. Very quiet. Then… we’re going to rent a place. Of our own.»
There it was. *That* was yesterday’s worry. Not the pregnancy itself, but Emily moving away. Leaving Margaret alone.
«Own place?» Margaret repeated faintly. «What about me?»
«Mum, you understand,» Emily leaned across the table, «we need our own space. With a baby, our own family. But we’ll visit every weekend. You can come to us.»
«Absolutely,» Paul added quickly, «you’ll be a grandmother. Isn’t it wonderful?»
Margaret stayed silent, twisting the booties in her hands. A grandmother. Yes, that should be joyful. A grandchild. A new generation. So why this heavy dread?
«Mum, you’re not saying anything,» Emily worried. «Aren’t you happy?»
«Happy,» Margaret said slowly. «Of course, I’m happy. A grandbaby… it’s wonderful.»
But her voice sounded hollow,
Lauren held the small white booties as dusk fell, her grip tightening on the tiny symbols of the new life beginning and the familiar one fading like the light outside her window.