Laura Watson wiped her hands on a tea towel and glanced at the wall clock again. Half past six. Her daughter should have been home from work by now; she’d promised six o’clock. Today was special—her fifty-fifth birthday tomorrow—and they’d planned to cook the celebratory meal together.
“Mum, I’m home!” A voice came from the hallway, but it sounded tired, not its usual cheerful self.
Emily walked into the kitchen, dropped her bag onto a chair, and went straight to the fridge for water. Laura noticed immediately something was wrong. After thirty-two years of motherhood, she knew her daughter’s moods.
“What’s happened, love?” Laura asked, sitting down opposite her. “You seem different today.”
“It’s nothing, Mum,” Emily avoided direct eye contact. “Just worn out. This new boss is demanding daily reports.”
“Well alright then,” Laura decided not to press. “Shall we start cooking? I got the meat out of the freezer, peeled the potatoes. Thought I’d make that cheesy bake you like.”
Emily just nodded silently and began washing her hands at the sink. They’d cooked together like this every year since Emily’s divorce, a cherished tradition the night before Laura’s birthday—chatting, laughing over old memories.
“Remember last year when we burned the pie?” Laura tried to lighten the mood. “We were gabbing so much we didn’t see it blacken in the oven.”
“I remember,” Emily replied softly, chopping onions. “Mum, can we keep it simple tonight? I really am exhausted.”
Laura’s heart clenched. Something was definitely wrong. Emily never skipped their special cooking night. She usually suggested trying something new.
“Of course, love,” Laura agreed. “Just sausages and mash then, maybe a side salad?”
They cooked in near silence. Laura felt an invisible wall. Emily gave short answers, avoided her gaze, busied herself—re-chopping onions, wiping the counter again.
“Emmy,” Laura couldn’t hold back as they sat down to eat. “Tell me what’s bothering you. I know you’re upset. Work troubles? Or did you and Mark have a row?”
Mark was Emily’s boyfriend of six months. Laura had grown to like him; he was pleasant and Emily seemed smitten.
“Mark’s fine,” Emily pushed mashed potato around her plate. “Honestly, Mum, I’m just tired. I’ll feel better tomorrow.”
After dinner, Emily washed the dishes and said she’d head home early.
“Early?” Laura was surprised. “What about tea? I baked your favourite cherry cake yesterday.”
“We’ll have cake tomorrow,” Emily was already putting her coat on. “At the party, with the guests.”
“Guests?” Laura was confused. “We agreed, just us tomorrow. Quiet and cosy.”
Emily froze by the door, her back turned.
“Well… I thought… maybe we could invite Mark. And Auntie Joan, she always asks about your birthday.”
“Emmy,” Laura walked towards her. “You’re hiding something. I feel it. We’ve always shared everything, right from when you were small. What is it?”
Emily turned. Laura saw her daughter’s eyes were glistening.
“Mum, really, it’s okay. We’ll… we’ll talk tomorrow, alright? I’m just really knackered.”
She quickly kissed Laura’s cheek and left, leaving Laura alone with swirling anxiety.
She barely slept, tossing and turning. What could upset Emily so? Work problems? But she always confided. Problems with Mark? They’d laughed on the phone just yesterday. Or health troubles? The thought sent chills down her spine. God, not that. Emily was her everything since her husband passed – her friend, her rock, her purpose.
In the morning, Laura rose early. Freshening up, she put on her favourite dress. It *was* her birthday after all. She laid the best tablecloth, set out the nice china. Perhaps yesterday was just fatigue. Today would be normal.
At half ten, the phone rang.
“Mum! Happy birthday!” Emily’s voice sounded strained. “How are you? Feeling festive?”
“Thank you, love. Waiting for you. What time?”
“Oh… Mum, I’ll be a bit late. I’ve… got something to sort. About two o’clock okay?”
“Fine, love. I’ll have lunch ready.”
“Good. And Mum… Mark’s coming with me, that alright?”
“Of course, lovely. I look forward to it.”
Laura hung up, her heart skipping. Something in Emily’s careful tone about Mark worried her.
Time crawled. Laura prepared all Emily’s favourites, set the table, changed outfits. She watched the window. Two o’clock passed. Half two. Nothing.
Finally, at three, familiar footsteps sounded on the stairs. Emily’s voice, and Mark’s.
“Mum, we’re here!” Emily entered first, followed by Mark carrying flowers.
“Laura, happy birthday!” Mark offered the bouquet and gave an awkward peck on the cheek. “Wishing you health and happiness.”
“Thank you, Mark,” she accepted the flowers, looking at Emily. Her daughter stood, eyes downcast, fiddling with her bag strap.
They sat down. Laura poured tea, offered food, tried to keep conversation light. But she felt on edge. Emily barely ate, answered distractedly. Mark kept shooting her guilty looks.
“Right then,” Laura said finally. “Shall we have cake? Blow out the candles?”
“Mum, wait,” Emily stopped her. “We… we have a present.”
“Oh?” Laura managed a smile. “You shouldn’t have spent money, love.”
Emily pulled a small, neatly wrapped box from her bag. Her hands trembled as she handed it over.
“It’s… it’s not exactly a present,” she murmured. “It’s more… news.”
Laura took the box, unwrapped it. Inside was a tiny item wrapped in tissue. She unfolded it. Tiny white booties. Knitted, impossibly small.
“What is this?” Laura asked, perplexed.
“Mum,” Emily looked up, tears pooling, “I’m pregnant. Mark and I… we’re getting married.”
Laura stared at the booties. She couldn’t grasp what she felt. Joy? Shock? Fear? All tangled.
“Pregnant?” she repeated. “How far along?”
“Three months now,” Emily wiped her eyes. “Mum, I know it’s a shock. We didn’t plan it. But we want the baby. And to marry.”
“Marry?” Laura looked at Mark. “When?”
“Next month,” he answered. “Registry office, quiet do. Then… then we plan to find a flat. Our own place.”
Ah. There it was. That’s what had troubled Emily yesterday. Not just the pregnancy, but moving out. Leaving her mum alone.
“Our own place?” Laura echoed faintly. “What about me?”
“Mum, you understand,” Emily leaned across the table. “We need our own space. With a baby, our own little family. But we’ll visit loads, every weekend. You can come to ours.”
“Definitely,” Mark nodded. “You’ll be a gran. That’s wonderful news, isn’t it?”
Laura stayed silent, twisting the tiny booties in her fingers. A grandmother. Yes, that should be pure joy. A grandchild. Family carrying on. So why this heavy sorrow?
“Mum, you’re so quiet,” Emily looked worried. “Aren’t you happy?”
“Happy?” Laura said slowly. “Of course, I’m
The worn leather of the tiny booties felt cool against her palm as she watched the deepening dusk swallow the London streets outside her window, the silence of the empty North London flat settling around her like a shroud, the quiet tears tracing a familiar path down her cheeks marking not just a birthday, but the hollow ache of a chapter ending.