Margaret Whitmore stood in the middle of her sitting room, gazing at the stack of beautifully wrapped gift boxes piled by the coffee table. Each was tied with satin ribbon, each contained something special, chosen with love and care. Tomorrow was her daughter Claire’s birthday, and she’d spent a month preparing for it.
“Nana, where are you?” called her granddaughter Lily from the hall. “We’re here!”
“Coming, darling,” Margaret replied, giving the gifts one last glance.
In the hallway, she was greeted by the whole family—her daughter Claire with husband James, granddaughter Lily, and baby great-grandson Oliver in James’s arms.
“Mum, happy birthday to me!” Claire laughed, hugging her. “Though it’s not till tomorrow.”
“I’m so nervous,” Margaret admitted. “Everything’s ready. I’ll set the table in the morning.”
“Mum, we told you not to fuss,” Claire said, hanging her coat. “We’ll just come over, have a cuppa, and chat. Why put yourself through all this trouble?”
“What trouble? It’s your birthday once a year!” Margaret took Oliver into her arms. “How’s my little man?”
James sank into an armchair with a sigh.
“Rough day at the office. Clients were a nightmare, boss was worse. Thank goodness tomorrow’s a day off.”
“Dad, you say that every day,” Lily remarked, pulling textbooks from her backpack. “Can I study here? Got a test Monday.”
“Of course, love,” Margaret nodded. “I’ll bring you tea and biscuits.”
She headed to the kitchen while the family settled in the lounge. Through the open door, she heard them discussing plans.
“Claire, maybe we shouldn’t invite anyone tomorrow?” James suggested. “Just keep it small. Your mum’ll cook enough to feed an army.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Claire replied. “Mum, what are you doing? We already ate at home.”
“Be right there!”
Margaret arranged teacups and a plate of homemade shortbread on a tray—the same Lily had loved as a child.
“Oh, Nana, thanks, but I’m on a diet,” Lily said when she saw it. “No sweets for me.”
“Diet at sixteen?” Margaret frowned.
“Modern diets,” Claire cut in. “Lily’s doing the right thing, watching her figure. Wish I’d had that willpower at her age.”
Margaret set the tray down and sat beside James.
“How’s work, James? Any news on the promotion?”
“Promotion? Not likely,” he waved a hand. “Recession’s hitting hard, layoffs everywhere. Just glad I’ve still got a job.”
“Don’t say that,” Claire chided. “You never know. Honestly, we should think about moving.”
“Moving where?” Margaret tensed.
“The flat’s too small now. Oliver needs space, Lily should have her own room. We’re looking at a three-bed in the new estate.”
“What’s wrong with here? School, clinic, shops—all nearby. And I’m just round the corner.”
“Mum, it’s not the Middle Ages,” Claire sighed, scrolling on her phone. “We’ll visit whenever. It’s only half an hour by car.”
Margaret nodded, but something tightened in her chest. Half an hour was far. Now, Lily popped in after school every day, did homework here, chatted about her life.
That evening, after everyone left, Margaret stayed with her gifts and thoughts. She checked each box again, imagining Claire unwrapping them tomorrow.
At six the next morning, she began cooking. Claire’s favourite prawn cocktail. Roast chicken with potatoes. A Victoria sponge she’d spent all night baking, layering sponge and jam.
By lunch, the table was set, the flat spotless, gifts arranged on the sofa.
“Happy birthday, darling!” Margaret hugged Claire at the door. “Forty-five! Where did the years go?”
“Thanks, Mum,” Claire kissed her cheek. “Smells amazing! You promised not to go overboard.”
“Just a little something,” Margaret smiled.
They gathered at the table. Margaret poured tea, piled salads onto plates, made sure no one went hungry.
“Nana, can I skip the chicken?” Lily asked. “I’m vegetarian now.”
“Since when?” Claire blinked.
“Since two days ago. Read online it’s healthy and trendy.”
“Lily, what will you eat then?” Margaret fretted. “I’ll make you something else.”
“Don’t fuss, Nana. Salad’s fine.”
James ate silently, eyes glued to his phone. Claire barely looked up from her screen.
“Remember your first birthday, love?” Margaret began. “You were one, just learned to walk. Smashed the cake everywhere, covered head to toe.”
“Mum, you’ve told that story a hundred times,” Claire muttered, still scrolling.
“Oh. Right.” Margaret’s smile faltered.
After lunch, it was time for gifts. Margaret presented the boxes proudly.
“Mum, why so many?” Claire sighed. “I said not to buy anything.”
“Open them!” Margaret clasped her hands.
The first box held a silk scarf from that posh boutique they’d visited last year.
“Lovely. Thanks.” Claire set it aside.
Next were expensive French perfumes Margaret had agonised over at the counter.
“Interesting scent.”
“Very popular right now,” Margaret beamed.
Third were gold earrings with tiny sapphires.
“Mum, are you mad?” Claire turned them in her fingers. “How much were these?”
“Doesn’t matter. You like them?”
“They’re nice, but why spend so much? I’ve got loads of earrings.”
The last box was a cashmere jumper.
“Fits, I think,” Claire held it up briefly.
“I remember your size,” Margaret said softly.
“Thanks, Mum. Really sweet, but next time, don’t waste your money.”
“Claire, can I see those?” Lily reached for the earrings. “They’re cool.”
She tried them on, twirling before the mirror.
“Suits you?”
“Gorgeous,” Margaret nodded. “Like a princess.”
“Nana, can I have them? Mum never wears jewellery.”
“Since when don’t I?” Claire frowned.
“When did you last wear any? Work, home—always bare. No rules at my school.”
“Take them, then,” Claire shrugged. “No use to me.”
Something pinched in Margaret’s chest. Earrings she’d chosen just for her daughter, passed on in minutes.
“Can I try the perfume too?” Lily pressed.
“Take it,” Claire pushed the box over. “Just don’t drown in it at school.”
Margaret quietly cleared the table. Presents she’d spent half her pension on lay discarded—scarf folded carelessly, jumper still in its box.
“Mum, cutting the cake?” Claire peered into the kitchen.
“Of course.”
Margaret brought out the Victoria sponge—twelve hours of work, three packs of butter, a kilo of flour.
“Blimey, proper cake!” James grinned.
“Big slices,” Margaret urged. “Plenty to go round.”
“Just a sliver,” Claire said. “Watching my weight.”
“Me too,” Lily added. “New jeans won’t fit otherwise.”
James took a huge portion, shovelling it in.
“Brilliant. Just like Gran used to make.”
“Very nice,” Claire nibbled a corner. “But heavy. This tiny bit’s enough.”
Margaret stared at the barely touched cake, throat tight.
“Nana, can I take leftovers for my friends?” Lily asked.
“Take it, love.”
That evening, alone, Margaret sat in her armchair surveying the flat. Plates still full. Cake gone with Lily. Gifts untouched—scarf and jumper not even properly unfolded.
She picked up the scarf. The silk shimmered, just as she’d pictured on Claire.
The jumper too—soft, warm, expensive. The shop assistant had raved about the cashmere.
Margaret packed everything back into boxes and tucked them away. Why gather dust at Claire’s when she didn’t want them?
Next morning, neighbour Edith called.
“Margaret, how was the party?”
“Fine,” Margaret said. “Usual sort of thing.”
“Did she like the gifts? Saw you traipsing round shops for weeks.”
A pause.
“She did.”
“Good. Young people today don’t appreciate anything. Everything comes too easy.”
“Maybe we were the same at their age.”
“No. We saved every penny, treasured every little thing. Now they’ve too much to care.”
After hanging up, Margaret wondered. Maybe Edith was right. Maybe the problem wasn’t Claire’s ingratitude, but abundance. Too much, too easily given.
She remembered her own childhood—a new dress was an event for months. An orange at Christmas, a miracle. Now Lily’s wardrobe overflowed, Claire’s shelves brimmed with makeup and perfumes.
That evening, Claire rang.
“Mum, thanks again. Didn’t properlyThe following week, as Margaret taught her second baking class—this time for scones—she realised that happiness wasn’t in gifts given, but in moments shared with those who truly valued them.