My Husband’s Family Forgot My 40th Birthday—So I Finally Decided to Stand Up for Myself and Gave The…

Why is my phone so quiet tonight? Maybe theres bad reception. Or perhaps they muddled up the dates. Surely they couldnt just forget, Andrew. This isnt just any birthdayits forty. A proper milestone. Not the kind of thing family forgets, is it? Catherine turned her wineglass between her hands, gazing at the dormant glow of her mobile on the crisp white tablecloth.

Andrew, her husband, directed his eyes down at his plate of roasted duck as if examining the meaning of life in a sliver of gravy. He chewed with exaggerated intent, prolonging the moment before he had to break the silence. In the sitting room, candles flickered, music drifted quietly, the scent of pine and satsumas hung in the airit was December, two weeks before Christmas, Catherines birthday. She had spent two days cooking, hopeful, as she was every year, that Andrews relatives would drop by that evening or at the very least ring to offer congratulations.

‘You know what my mums like,’ Andrew finally mumbled, laying down his fork. Maybe her blood pressures high again. Or shes up to her elbows in those tomato pots at the allotmentwait, not in winter… Anyway, she probably just forgot. Old age. And Emily Emilys always up to her eyes at work. Some end-of-year thing.

‘Emilys end-of-year seems to last twelve months when it comes to me,’ Catherine replied bitterly. ‘Strange, isnt it? When she needs someone to mind the twins or help her out ’til payday, suddenly she has all the time in the world for me.’

Catherine rose and drifted towards the window. Outside, thick flakes of snow spiralled beneath a streetlamp. She was forty. Lifes Rubicon. The time to tally up whats been and whats yet to come. Tonights total: dismal. Fifteen years of favours, of being the one-calls-for-lifts, casseroles, childcare and crisis talks, and yet apparently, she didnt merit a mark in the family diary.

‘Dont let it get to you, love,’ Andrew said, coming up behind her, arms around her shoulders. ‘We have each other. I remembered, didnt I? And I got you that voucherlook, for that spa you wanted.’

It was a lovely gift. Andrews affection was genuine, if soft-edged, incapable of challenging his mother Sheilas iron insistence or little sister Emilys blithe demands. He was always the ostrich, head snugly in the sand, hoping disquiet simply dissolved on its own.

‘Im not upset, Andrew,’ Catherine said quietly to her reflection in the winter-black glass. ‘Im just drawing conclusions.’

The truth was, the conclusions drew themselves. She recalled hosting Sheilas sixty-fifth the previous year: using her own annual leave, haggling over the cost at the Rose & Thorn, drafting a menu, icing a monstrous homemade cake to save Sheila pennies, and piecing together that sentimental film of old family photos. The payoff? An arid, ‘Cheers, couldve put more cream in it,’ and a bottle of discount shower gel, label still attachedtwo for one at Tescos, evidently.

Emily? Help from Catherine was a law of nature. ‘Cath, youll have to pick up the girls, Ive a hair appointment.’ ‘Cath, can you help with my CV? Youre good with words.’ ‘Cath, can I borrow that blue dress?’ And Catherine had always said yes, convinced this was how family worked. That goodwill, sown with an open hand, would one day flourish.

The phone remained mute that evening and the next. Not even the customary JPEG of daffodils with ‘Happy Birthday in Comic Sans used for every church festival. A week later: silence. Then, finally, a flash on her screen: ‘Emily.’

‘Hey, birthday girl!’ Emilys voice bounced cheerily, as if the world hadnt turned, not a hint of shame. ‘Listen, favour to ask. Nick and I are popping up to York for the weekend, bit of a breather Can you take Max for us? He knows you, hell be fine, and the kennel charges are criminal, honestly.’

Catherine stood, a lump of dough still clinging to her hands.

‘Hello, Emily,’ she replied slowly. ‘Do you have nothing to say about last week?’

‘Last week? Oh the birthday? Oh, Cath, Im sorry, mad rush, totally blanked. But youre not cross, are you? Were all family. Belated happy birthday and all that. Right, about Maxcan we drop him by Friday night?’

Max, a huge, excitable Labrador, had eaten her new shoes and clawed their wallpaper to ribbons last time.

‘No,’ said Catherine.

‘What do you mean, no?’ Emilys voice was sharp.

‘I mean, no, I wont be looking after Max.’

A breathless hush down the line.

‘But but thats what wed agreedyou always do it! The hotels booked, the tickets, everything’

‘Yes, I always did. But not anymore. I have other plans. Max will have to try the kennel.’

‘Is this about the birthday card? Oh Cath, grow up. Forty and sulking over a missed text? I didnt expect you to be so petty. Ill tell Mum youre making things difficult.’

‘Feel free,’ replied Catherine, pressing end. Her hands shook a little, though inside, something calm and quietly radiant was settling. Shed said ‘no’and the ceiling hadnt collapsed. The dough in the bowl simply rose, undisturbed, beneath its tea towel.

That evening Andrew came home looking hunted, as though hed just been given a stern talking to by his mother and sister.

‘Mums been on the phone Emilys in tears, trips ruined. Cant we take the dog? Its little enough to ask, surely.’

Catherine fixed Andrew with a level gaze.

‘They forgot my fortieth. Not just forgota milestone birthday, not even an apology after. Emily rang because she wanted free dog-sitting, not to see how I was. Do you not see how one-sided this is?’

Andrew sighed and sank into a chair. ‘I know. But theyre your relatives’

‘And relatives should show respect, not treat me as domestic help. It stops here. Things are changing, Andrew.’

So Max went to the kennels, and Catherine was summarily exiled, discussed in whispered asides as the resentful drama queen. But the earth kept turning.

And soon enough, the main event of Andrews clan loomed: Sheilas seventieth. She planned a grand affair, targeting the country house Andrew had spent five years restoring brick by brick.

Usually the pattern held: Sheila would ring, brisk and businesslike, giving Catherine a battalions shopping list and menu. As the familys housekeeper-on-call, and owner of the one car, Catherine fetched the food and, for hours, stood at the hob making mountains of salads and trays of lamb, while Sheila and Emily preened in the parlour.

Mid-January, the call came.

‘Cathy, love, how are we? Not too sniffly, I hope? Now, the birthdays nearly here, so we must get organised. Ive got a list readyred salmon, not the cheap stuff, five salads, two trifles, plenty of gammon for sandwiches’

Catherine stirred her coffee and listened, her pen unmoved.

‘Sheila,’ she interjected gently, ‘whos doing all the cooking?’

‘Why, uswell, you, really! Ill supervise, and Emily will help set the table, soon as shes finished at the salon.’

‘Sheila,’ Catherine said levelly, ‘Im afraid I cant this year. Ive already plans for those days. Ill come for the party itself as a guest.’

A petrified hush. You could almost see the silence congeal in the air.

‘Plans? More important than your husbands mothers seventieth? Have you lost your mind? Who will cook? You expect me to hobble around on my old legs, or for Emily to ruin her manicure?’

‘You can try catering; order from the pub. Very convenient. Everything arrives fresh and hot, nice pottery, and you dont even have to do the washing up.’

‘Catering? Cost a fortune! My pension doesnt stretch that far. And nothing tastes as good as homemade. Listen, Cathy, enough acting out. You can cool off after the dog episode, but family occasions are sacred. I expect you Friday night. Ill send Andrew the shopping list, since youre too busy to write it down yourself.’

She hung up. Later, Andrew appeared pale and anxious.

‘Mums sent a twenty-page listcost over five hundred quid. Shes set on us going Friday to sort it. What do we do?’

‘You can go,’ said Catherine, not bothering to look up from her magazine. ‘Buy it all, if you want. But Im not spending my weekend at a stove. I told your mum.

‘Itll be chaos! Shell have my guts for garters if its a disaster!’

‘Andrewremember my own birthday. The food was ready, but the table was empty. You all forgot. Now Im doing the same. Ill attend the party, Ill bring a gift, but Im not staff. If your mum wants a feast, she can find a cook or ask her daughter.’

Andrew paced, whispered frantically on the phone. In the end, he bought the food but had no clue what to do with it. Emily declared, from a safe distance, that shed only ruin a manicure attempting potato salad.

Saturday dawned. Party day.

Catherine woke late, ran a bath, laid a mask on her face, and slipped into her finest dressa midnight blue chiffon, just skimming the floor. Hair brushed, lipstick fresh, she was poised and regal.

Andrew set off early, panic and marinade stains riding shotgun. He called Catherine five times: ‘Please, Cath, come soon, its awful, Mums shouting, the lambs raw, nobodys done a salad!’

‘Ill be there at two, as per the invitation,’ Catherine replied, and hung up.

She booked a black cab, stopped for a modest bouquet of chrysanthemums rather than her usual extravagant roses, and bought a card on the way.

When she arrived, the scene inside resembled a comic farce. Sheila, wild-eyed, hair full of curlers, flapped around the kitchen; Emily, slim and seething, chips her manicure attempting to open a tin of peas. Andrew, black with charcoal, tried to resuscitate the barbecue.

Uncles and aunts sat at a desolate tablejust plates and bottled water, looking at each other in confusion.

‘Oh, look who deigns to show up!’ Sheila screeched at Catherines arrival. ‘Dressed up like the Duchess, while we run ourselves ragged! Wheres your sense of decency?’

‘Good afternoon, Sheila,’ Catherine beamed, handing over the bouquet and a little gift box. ‘Congratulations on your special day! Wishing you every happiness.’

Sheila snatched the parcel, barely glancing at the flowers. ‘Whats this supposed to mean? Get in the kitchentheres potatoes to boil and a cheese board to do! The guests are starving!’

‘Sheila, Im a guest today,’ Catherine announced, her voice carrying. ‘I warned I wouldnt be cooking. You said youd manage.’

Sheila nearly lifted off the floor with indignation. ‘How could you! Embarrassing me in front of everyone!’

Emily flung the can of peas down. ‘Youre a nightmare, Cath! I broke a nail! Now get in here and help!’

Catherine met her glare. ‘Its your mums birthday, so you can help her. Im just your brothers wifethe outsider, as you always remind me when its anything important. Consider me a guest, just for today.’

She glided into the lounge, greeting the stunned relatives. ‘Hello, all. Lovely weather for it. Bit short on nibbles, but Im sure Sheila has something planned.’

Just then, Andrew, smelling like a fire, slunk in. ‘The barbecue its burnt. All of it. I was on the phone. The grill was too hot.’

Silence thickened the air. Twenty hungry faces eyed the hosts. Sheila sank into a chair, her hand pressed to her chest in real distress for once.

‘Its her fault!’ she hissed, pointing at Catherine. ‘Sabotage! Shes done it to humiliate me! A viper, thats what she is!’

‘Sheila,’ Catherine said, rising, ‘I didnt sabotage anything. I simply mirrored your treatment of me. When my birthday came, you erased me. I decided to act in kind. Shall I open your gift now?’

Sheila, trembling, tore open the box. Inside: a cheap calendar with kittens, days of the year in bold.

‘What is this?’ she whispered.

‘A calendar. Ive marked all the family birthdays in redincluding mine. So next year, nobody forgets. Consider it a tokenan even exchange for last years half-empty shower gel.’

Some uncle gave an explosive laugh. ‘Well, shes right, Sheil! Youre always telling everyone how golden Catherine is. Cant even recall her fortieth? Thats not on.’

Sheila snarled for silence, and the party limped along. There was barely any food, just a hacked-up sausage, a stray tin of peas, a bowl of dry crackers. The guests drank cheap gin and said little.

An hour later, Catherine hailed another cab.

‘I think Ill be off, Andrew,’ she said with a polite smile. ‘The atmosphere is, shall we say, not entirely festive.’

‘Youve ruined me, Cath,’ Andrew whispered, watching her at the door. ‘Mumll never forgive this.’

‘Now you know how much I do for you all,’ she countered, almost wondering if she would float away, lighter than air. ‘Maybe now its gone, itll be appreciated. When youre home, well have decent pizza. Real food.’

She left. The family row raged for a monthSheila swore up and down the phone about ingratitude, Emily declared Catherine an egotist.

But then the oddest thing happened. Andrew stopped making excuses. He saw, for perhaps the first time, the gulf between his mothers house of chaos and demands and his wifes home, always calm, fragrant, and welcoming.

A month later, Andrew brought home the biggest bouquet of red roses. No occasion, just a Wednesday.

‘For you,’ said Andrew. And I told Mumno digging her garden for May. Were off to a spa for a week. Just you and me. Ive made the booking.

Catherine breathed in the scent.

‘What about the potatoes?’ she teased.

‘Well buy them,’ Andrew replied. And as for buying their affectionwith you doing all the jobsIm done. You were right. Respect has to flow both ways.

Sheila and Emily sulked for weeks. But by the time Mothers Day rolled round in March, Catherine received a text from Emily: ‘Happy Mothers Day, Cath! Wishing you sunshine!’ and a tulip emoji.

Just a tiny victory. Catherine wasnt suddenly their bosom friend, but theyd learnt one lesson: free rides were over. The door now only opened for respect and memory. And that kitten calendar, Andrew said later, still hung pride of place by Sheilas kitchen clockCatherines birthday circled in scarlet. Just in case.