The hallway in the old council flat was narrow and long, like a winding intestine. The walls were covered in faded floral wallpaper, and the creaky wooden floors had been laid decades ago. The air always carried the stale scent of boiled cabbage and cats, though no one in flat number seven had ever owned one.
Eileen didn’t open the door right away. She fiddled with the locks for a while, then peered through the peephole for a full minute before finally letting her daughter in.
“At last!” she exclaimed, pulling Sophie into a tight hug. “I thought you weren’t coming. Quick, come in—I’ve got a pie in the oven.”
Sophie shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, clutching a gift bag in her hands.
“Mum, I don’t have much time. I just popped in to wish you happy birthday and I’ve got to dash. Dan’s waiting for me in the car.”
Eileen’s face fell at once. The joy drained away, replaced by disappointment.
“What do you mean—popped in? I’ve laid the table, cooked all morning. Margaret from upstairs is coming, and Val with her granddaughter. We’re all waiting for you. It’s my birthday—sixty-five isn’t just any old year, you know.”
“Mum,” Sophie bit her lip, “I explained on the phone. We’ve got Dan’s dad’s seventieth today—a big do at the restaurant. All the family’s going, his colleagues, friends. We can’t not be there.”
“But it’s fine to skip your own mother’s birthday, is it?” Eileen pressed her lips together. “Am I less important than your father-in-law?”
“Mum, don’t be like that,” Sophie said, feeling backed into a corner. “I offered to move your celebration to tomorrow—just us, with a cake and presents. But you dug your heels in. Had to be today.”
“How could I move it?” Eileen threw her hands up. “My birthday’s today, not tomorrow! And Margaret’s already set on coming, and I’ve baked a pie! What do I tell them? That my daughter would rather be with strangers than her own mother?”
The hallway felt stifling. The sweet smell of pie drifting from the kitchen made Sophie’s head swim—or maybe it wasn’t the pie, just the old guilt that had chased her all her life.
“They’re not strangers, Mum. They’re Dan’s family. And we got the invite a week ago, long before you decided to throw this party.”
“A week ago! And when was I born—yesterday? You should remember your own mother’s birthday without needing an invite!”
Sophie checked her watch. Dan had been waiting in the car for fifteen minutes. They were late.
“Mum, I really can’t argue now. Here—” She held out the gift bag. “It’s that electric kettle you wanted, the one with temperature control. And—” She dug into her purse for an envelope. “That’s for the new coat you liked at Debenhams.”
Eileen ignored both.
“I don’t want your charity,” she snapped. “I want time with my daughter. But what am I saying? Time? You couldn’t even bring Emma with you—not even to see her own gran.”
“Emma’s got a fever—thirty-eight point five,” Sophie said wearily. “I rang you this morning. The babysitter’s with her.”
“Babysitter!” Eileen scoffed. “And I suppose her gran isn’t good enough? You think I can’t handle my own granddaughter?”
“Mum, that’s not—”
The doorbell rang. Margaret from upstairs stood on the doorstep—Eileen’s neighbour, dressed smartly, holding a cake box.
“Eileen, happy birthday, love!” she beamed, then faltered, noticing the tension. “Oh—bad timing?”
“Come in, Margaret!” Eileen forced cheer into her voice. “Perfect timing. Meet my Sophie—dropped in for five minutes before running off to more important people.”
Margaret gave an awkward smile.
“Come on now, Eileen. Young people have their own lives. Don’t keep her.”
“I’m not!” Eileen stepped aside dramatically. “Go on, Sophie, off you go. Wouldn’t want your father-in-law to be upset. And me? Oh, I’ll cope. I always do.”
Sophie stood frozen, gripping the gift bag. Her phone buzzed—Dan, no doubt wondering where she was.
“Mum, please,” she said quietly. “Let’s not do this in front of company. I’ll come tomorrow with Emma, as soon as she’s better, and we’ll celebrate properly—just us.”
“Company?” Eileen’s eyebrows shot up. “Margaret’s more family to me than some. At least she visits, asks after me. Not like some—who drop by once a month, shove a twenty in my hand, and think that’s good enough.”
Margaret shuffled uncomfortably, clearly regretting her timing.
“I’ll just… put the kettle on, shall I?” she muttered, vanishing into the kitchen.
“Right,” Sophie set the gift bag on the side table and left the envelope beside it. “I get it, Mum. Sorry I can’t stay. Happy birthday.”
She kissed Eileen’s cheek and slipped out before her mother could say anything else. The stairwell smelled of damp and dust. Sophie leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing deeply.
Her phone buzzed again. She answered.
“Yeah, Dan, coming now.”
“What took so long?” he asked, concerned. “We’re twenty minutes late.”
“The usual,” she said shortly. “Tell you in the car.”
She hurried down the worn-out stairs. Dan’s Audi was idling outside. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Well?” he asked as she buckled in.
“Didn’t go well,” Sophie sighed. “She said I’m no daughter of hers for choosing your dad’s party over hers.”
Dan exhaled. “Here we go again. Maybe we should’ve stayed?”
“Would it change anything?” Sophie closed her eyes. “Tomorrow she’d find another reason. The gift’s wrong, Emma’s too loud, I don’t visit enough. It never ends, Dan.”
He started the car without a word.
“You remember last year?” she continued. “I cancelled our holiday to throw her a party—made all the food, invited her friends. And all evening she sulked because the cake was shop-bought. Said I didn’t care about her health—all that fake stuff in supermarket cakes.”
“I remember,” Dan turned onto the main road. “You were upset for a week.”
“And when Emma was born?” Sophie stared out the window, seeing past years instead of streets. “Instead of helping, she criticized everything—how I swaddled, how I fed her, how I held her. Then got hurt when I didn’t ask her to babysit.”
Dan glanced at her. “Look—maybe we should see a counsellor? You and your mum together?”
Sophie gave a bitter laugh.
“She’d sooner die than admit there’s a problem. To her, therapy’s for nutters.”
They pulled up to the restaurant, where guests were already filing in—smiling, dressed-up, stepping into the warm glow.
“Here we are,” Dan said, parking. “Try not to think about your mum tonight, yeah? Dad’s been looking forward to this.”
Sophie nodded, touching up her lipstick. She had to pull herself together. A party was a party—no one should see her upset.
Inside, the room buzzed with chatter and laughter. David—Dan’s father, tall, silver-haired, military-straight—greeted them at the door.
“My latecomers!” he cheered, hugging Dan first, then Sophie. “Sophie, you look lovely!”
“Happy birthday,” she kissed his cheek. “Sorry we’re late—got held up at Mum’s.”
David’s face softened.
“How is she? Send her my best. Awkward timing, this.”
“Yeah, awkward,” Sophie kept her tone light. “We’ll celebrate with her tomorrow.”
“And Emma? Dan said she’s poorly.”
“Just a fever,” Sophie assured him. “Nothing serious, but we left her with the sitter.”
“Smart,” David nodded. “Kids come first. Now—get in there, everyone’s waiting.”
The room was alive with music, clinking glasses, laughter. Sophie and Dan greeted relatives, found their seats, and joined the festivities. Well—Dan did. Sophie only pretended. Her thoughts were miles away—in that flat with peeling wallpaper, where her mum was probably complaining to Margaret about her ungrateful daughter.
Between toasts, Helen—Dan’s mother, elegant in a navy dress—leaned in.
“You’re quiet tonight, love. Everything alright?”
Sophie forced a smile.
“Fine, just worried about Emma. Sitter says her fever’s not dropping.”
“Kids bounce back,” Helen patted her»But as Sophie watched her daughter giggle later that evening, she realized that sometimes love means accepting imperfections—both in others and in yourself.»