“Eleanor! Elly, love, what’s all this weeping?” Agatha’s voice trembled with despair. “It’s your birthday! Seventy years! Guests will be here any moment, and here you are…”
“I don’t want to see anyone!” Eleanor Michaels sniffled, pressing a damp handkerchief to her eyes. “Cancel it all! Tell them I’m unwell!”
“Are you quite mad? The cake’s ordered, the buffet’s ready, Edward came all the way from Manchester specially!” Agatha sat beside her sister on the sofa, gently touching her shoulder. “Whatever’s happened? Tell me!”
Eleanor shook her head, burying her face in a cushion. Agatha glanced helplessly around the living room. Everything was immaculate for the celebration: the table covered with a crisp white cloth, set with sparkling crystal glasses and china plates trimmed in gold. Bouquets filled every corner, scenting the air with sweetness. Yet the guest of honour huddled on the sofa like a wronged child.
“El, what is it?” Agatha tried to catch Eleanor’s eye. “Has it something to do with James? He phoned yesterday, wished you well…”
“Wished me well!” Eleanor gave a bitter laugh. “We spoke for thirty seconds. ‘Mum, happy birthday, work’s mad, love you.’ That was it! I waited all day, wondering if he might visit… If just this once he might…”
Agatha sighed. James, Eleanor’s only son, had lived in London for a decade now, building a career in some big company. He visited rarely, sometimes at Christmas, and not even every year.
“You know how demanding his job is…” Agatha tried to console her.
“Job, job!” Eleanor flared up. “Didn’t I work? Twenty years at the factory, then deputy head at the school until retirement! And I never, hear me, never forgot his birthday! Presents, homemade cakes, inviting all his friends! And now? I’m just an afterthought to him!”
Tears flowed anew. Agatha silently passed her another handkerchief.
“Do you remember,” Eleanor sobbed, “that eighth birthday party we threw for James with Walter? We hired a magician, half the street gathered to watch. James was over the moon… His eyes shining…”
Walter, Eleanor’s husband, had died eight years ago. A heart attack at the cottage, no one could help in time. After his death, Eleanor seemed lost, living only through hope for her son, that he would be her support.
“Perhaps we could send him a gift?” Agatha suggested. “Something lovely, expensive…”
“It’s not about gifts!” Eleanor snapped her head up. “I want his attention! A proper phone chat, asking how I am, how I’m feeling. An occasional visit! He just sends money for my birthday and Mother’s Day. Like I’m some pensioner he barely knows!”
The doorbell chimed in the hall. The sisters exchanged a look.
“That’ll be Edward, I expect,” Agatha whispered. “El, please, wash your face. You can’t greet him like this…”
“Go answer it,” Eleanor waved her hand. “Say I’ve a headache.”
Agatha sighed and went to the door. Her son Edward stood there with an enormous bouquet of roses and an elegantly wrapped box.
“Mum, hello! Where’s the birthday girl?” he exclaimed cheerfully, kissing her cheek.
“Aunt Eleanor’s feeling a little under the weather,” Agatha hesitated. “Perhaps we should postpone?”
“Don’t be daft!” Edward stepped into the living room. “Aunt Elly! Happy Birthday! Seventy is a real milestone!”
Eleanor looked up through tear-filled eyes, attempting a smile. Edward had always been like a son to her. When James went off to university, it was Edward who fixed the tap, carried heavy shopping bags.
“Thank you, Eddie, dear,” she whispered, accepting the flowers. “They’re beautiful…”
“And this is for you!” He handed her the box. “A photo album. Remember all those pictures of me and James when we were little? I gathered them all, scanned them. Look!”
Eleanor opened the box and gasped. On the first page was a photograph: her younger, smiling self holding a one-year-old James, while Walter beside them hugged them both.
“Eddie, where did you find this?” she asked, amazed.
“Found them at Mum’s. She kept all your photos. Look, here we are at the lake. Me about five, James seven…”
Eleanor turned the pages, tears flowing even more freely. But they were different tears now. Memories washed over her: family holidays at Agatha’s cottage, the boys chasing butterflies with nets; Christmas trees; James in a snowman costume, Edward a rabbit; James’s school leavers’ prom…
“He wasn’t like this then,” Eleanor said quietly, pointing to a photo where eighteen-year-old James hugged her after receiving his GCSE results. “He was kind, affectionate…”
“He still *is* kind,” Edward said carefully. “It’s just… life’s frantic. Work, the grind… You know, Aunt Elly, I spoke with him recently. He worries he doesn’t see you enough.”
“You did?” Eleanor asked, sceptical. “When?”
“Last week. He rang. Asked how you were, if you’d been poorly. Wanted ideas for a birthday gift, asked my advice. I told him about the album, he was chuffed…”
Eleanor stared at her nephew in disbelief.
“He really asked?”
“Of course! And he said he misses home life. Your stew especially,” Edward smiled. “Remember how he’d only eat *your* stew as a lad? Mum used the same recipe, he’d turn his nose up: ‘Not like Mum’s!'”
Eleanor couldn’t help but smile. Her stew *was* famous. A recipe from her grandma, with secret ingredients.
“Perhaps I’ll make it for his next visit,” she mused.
“Absolutely!” Edward encouraged. “Now, let’s celebrate! Mum, where’s the fizz?”
Agatha bustled about, fetching glasses. Eleanor stood, went to the mirror, and powdered her nose.
“I look a fright,” she sighed, examining her reflection. “Eyes like a rabbit.”
“Hardly,” Agatha soothed. “What matters is your spirits lifted.”
At the table, conversation gradually warmed. Edward told amusing work stories, Agatha reminisced about her and Eleanor’s younger days going dancing, outshining all the local lads.
“Remember,” Eleanor laughed, “that tall blond chap who courted me? Steve, I think…”
“Steve the pilot!” Agatha chimed in. “Took you for spins on his motorbike!”
“Just as well I didn’t marry him,” Eleanor said thoughtfully. “Walter was better. More solid.”
“You and Uncle Walter were such a lovely pair,” Edward remarked. “Everyone thought so.”
“We were,” Eleanor agreed softly, looking back at the album photos.
The telephone rang. Agatha glanced at the caller ID.
“It’s a London number,” she said. “Elly, maybe James?”
Eleanor hesitantly picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“Mum!” Her son’s cheerful voice filled the room. “Happy Birthday! How’s the party? Have guests arrived?”
“Jamie!” Eleanor’s voice quivered. “You… You rang…”
“Course I did! Did you think I’d forget my own mum’s birthday? Listen, I was choosing a present, wasn’t sure what. Eddie suggested the photo album. Did it arrive?”
“It did,” Eleanor sniffled. “It’s lovely…”
“Mum, are you crying?” James sounded worried. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing… Just… Just thrilled you called…”
“Mum, come on… I always call! Sometimes just short on time… Remember that surprise we and Dad organised for your fiftieth? Inviting your old school friends?”
“I remember,” Eleanor smiled. “Teresa came
“With warmth flooding her chest as James chatted about baking that lopsided cake and his craving for her stew, Eleanor ended the call, returned the album to its box, and lifted her glass to toast Agatha and Edward, finally understanding that distance couldn’t dim a mother’s love or her son’s.”