**June 12th**
Margaret Whitmore stood in the middle of her sitting room, staring at the stack of neatly wrapped boxes piled beside the coffee table. Each was tied with satin ribbon, each held something special—carefully chosen with love. Tomorrow was her daughter Emma’s birthday, and she’d been preparing for it all month.
«Nana, where are you?» called her granddaughter Lily from the hallway. «We’re here!»
«Coming, darling,» Margaret replied, giving the presents one last glance.
The whole family greeted her in the hall—Emma with her husband James, Lily, and little great-grandson Oliver clinging to his father’s arms.
«Mum, happy birthday to me!» Emma laughed, hugging her. «Though it’s not till tomorrow.»
«I’ve been so nervous,» Margaret admitted. «Everything’s ready. I’ll finish setting the table in the morning.»
«Mum, we told you not to fuss,» Emma said, hanging up her coat. «We’ll just sit and chat. No need for all this trouble.»
«What trouble? It’s your birthday—once a year!» Margaret scooped up Oliver. «How’s my little lad, then?»
James dropped into an armchair with a sigh. «Rough day. Clients nagging, the boss on my back. At least tomorrow’s a day off.»
«Dad, you say that every night,» Lily remarked, pulling textbooks from her rucksack. «I’ve a test Monday—can I study here?»
«Of course, love,» Margaret nodded. «I’ll fetch you tea and biscuits.»
She headed to the kitchen while the family settled in the lounge. Through the open door, she caught snippets of tomorrow’s plans.
«Em, maybe we shouldn’t invite anyone?» James suggested. «Just keep it small. Your mum’ll cook enough for an army otherwise.»
«Fine by me,» Emma said. «Mum, what’re you doing? We already ate at home.»
«Just a moment, love!»
Margaret arranged teacups and a plate of homemade shortbread—Lily’s childhood favourite—on a tray.
«Oh, Nana, thanks, but I’m on a diet,» Lily said when she saw them. «No sweets for me.»
«A diet at sixteen?» Margaret frowned.
«A modern one,» Emma cut in. «Lily’s right to watch her figure. Wish I’d had her discipline at that age.»
Margaret set the tray down and sat beside James. «How’s work, then? Any chance of that promotion?»
«Promotion?» He waved a hand. «With all these cutbacks? Lucky to still have a job.»
«Don’t say that,» Emma scolded. «Anyway, we ought to think about moving.»
«Moving?» Margaret’s chest tightened.
«The flat’s too small now. Oliver needs space, Lily ought to have her own room. We’re looking at three-bed houses in Bromley.»
«What’s wrong here? The school’s nearby, the clinic, shops. And I’m just round the corner.»
«Mum, it’s not the Dark Ages,» Emma said, scrolling her phone. «We’ll visit whenever. It’s only half an hour by car.»
Margaret nodded, but something ached inside. Half an hour was miles away. Now, Lily popped in after school, did her homework here, chatted about her day.
That evening, the family left, and Margaret was alone with the gifts. She checked each box again, imagining Emma unwrapping them tomorrow.
At six the next morning, she started cooking. Prawn cocktail—Emma’s favourite since she was small. Roast chicken with potatoes. A Victoria sponge she’d stayed up all night layering with jam and cream.
By noon, the table was set, the flat spotless, gifts arranged on the sofa.
«Happy birthday, love!» Margaret hugged Emma at the door. «Forty-five! Where did the years go?»
«Thanks, Mum.» Emma kissed her cheek. «Something smells amazing! You promised no fuss.»
«Oh, it’s nothing much,» Margaret demurred.
They gathered at the table. Margaret poured tea, topped up plates, fussed over everyone.
«Nana, can I skip the chicken?» Lily asked. «I’m vegetarian now.»
«Since when?» Emma blinked.
«Since Tuesday. Read online it’s healthy. And trendy.»
«But what will you eat?» Margaret fretted. «I’ll make you something else—»
«Don’t bother, Nana. Salad’s fine.»
James chewed silently, eyes on his phone. Emma barely glanced up from hers.
«Remember your first birthday, love?» Margaret began. «You were just learning to walk. Smashed the cake everywhere—covered in icing!»
«Mum, you’ve told that story a hundred times,» Emma said, still scrolling.
«Oh. Suppose I have.»
After lunch, it was time for gifts. Margaret brought the boxes with ceremony.
«Mum, why so many?» Emma sighed. «I said not to bother.»
«Go on, open them!»
The first held a silk scarf, bought at that posh department store where they’d once eyed coats.
«Lovely. Thanks.»
«You remember the shop assistant? Said it was genuine Italian silk.»
«Right.»
Next, expensive French perfume—Margaret had spent an hour choosing.
«Interesting scent.»
«Very popular, they said.»
Third, gold earrings with tiny sapphires.
«Mum, are you mad? How much were these?»
«Doesn’t matter. If you like them.»
«I do, but it’s too much. I’ve loads of earrings.»
Last, a cashmere jumper.
«Fits, I think.»
«I remember your size.»
«Thanks, Mum. Really. But next time, don’t spend so much.»
«Em, can I try the earrings?» Lily asked.
She modelled them before the mirror. «Suits me, yeah?»
«Like a princess,» Margaret said weakly.
«Nana, can I have them? Mum never wears jewellery.»
«Since when?» Emma snorted.
«When did you last wear any? Work, home—always bare. School doesn’t mind.»
«Take them, then.»
Margaret’s chest stung. Earrings picked just for Emma, gone in minutes.
«Can I have the perfume too?»
«All yours. Just don’t drown in it.»
Clearing the table later, Margaret noticed the untouched scarf, the jumper still folded. That evening, alone, she packed the gifts back into boxes and tucked them into the wardrobe. Why let them gather dust at Emma’s?
The next day, her neighbour Joan phoned.
«Margaret, how was the party?»
«Oh, the usual.»
«Did she like the presents? Saw you running round Harrods for weeks.»
A pause. «She did.»
«Good. Young ones don’t appreciate anything nowadays. Too much too easy.»
Margaret wondered. Maybe Joan was right. She recalled her own childhood—a new dress was an event for months. An orange at Christmas, a marvel. Now Lily’s wardrobe bulged, Emma’s shelves overflowed with cosmetics.
That night, Emma rang.
«Mum, thanks again. Didn’t say it properly yesterday.»
«Don’t mention it.»
«About the jumper—could we exchange it? It’s gorgeous, but a bit big.»
«Of course. The receipt’s somewhere.»
«And we’re viewing that house next week. The one I mentioned.»
«I see.»
«Don’t be sad. We’ll visit all the time.»
After hanging up, Margaret opened her diary. Wrote a list: return scarf, exchange jumper, take leftovers to the food bank. Then crossed it out and wrote: *Join the seniors’ club.*
Maybe it was time to stop expecting gratitude where none would come. Time to find people who’d truly value her care.
Next day, she put on her best suit and went to the community centre. The coordinator asked, «What skills do you have?»
«I bake. Cakes, mostly. Knit a bit, sew.»
«Perfect! We’ve been begging for baking workshops. People would adore that.»
*Adore.* When had she last heard that word meant sincerely?
On Saturday, she taught her first class: Victoria sponge. A dozen women scribbled notes, asked about oven temps, cream thickness.
«This looks professional!» one gasped.
«Thank you,» another said. «I’ve always wanted to learn.»
When’s the next lesson?» they chorused.
She walked home lighter. Needed. Useful.
That night, Emma called.
«Mum, what’ve you been up to?»
«Oh, taught a class at the club.»
«What club?»
«For seniors. Baking.»
«*You’re* teaching?»
«I know how, don’t I?»
«Just… unexpected. Enjoying it?»
«Immensely. They listen. Appreciate it.»
«Well. Good. Won’t be lonely when we move.»
«No,» Margaret said firmly.
And she wasn’t. She’d found people who cherished what she offered.
As for the unappreciated gifts? They stayed in the wardrobe. A reminder: loveMargaret closed the wardrobe door softly, knowing she’d rather bake cakes for strangers who smiled with every bite than waste another moment hoping for gratitude that would never come.