“After that humiliation, I’m supposed to sit there and smile? No thanks—celebrate without me.” With those words, my wife slammed the door on her own anniversary.
Emily woke before dawn. Even with her eyes shut, the truth settled in—today, she turned forty. A number that once felt distant now stared back at her every morning in the mirror: etched in fine lines, weary eyes, and the endless race between home and everyone else’s demands.
Beside her, Robert snored lightly. He didn’t stir as she slipped out from under the covers. Lately, he slept deeper… and cared less. Emily glanced at the clock—5:30 AM. The day ahead, one she’d dreamed would be special, now felt like just another test.
The kitchen was silent. She’d spent last evening prepping—marinating the meat, chopping veg, kneading dough—hoping to host a warm, heartfelt gathering. But year after year, the people who mattered seemed to drift further away.
“Mum, can I have twenty quid?” asked James, her sixteen-year-old son, already dressed and hovering at the door.
“Where are you off to?” Emily handed him the notes.
“Cycling with mates. I’ll be back by evening. For the guests.”
“No help, then?”
“You know how you like things done…” he muttered before vanishing. She didn’t argue. What was the point?
By nine, the kitchen was a battlefield—roast in the oven, pie rising, pots boiling. Robert shuffled in, yawning, poured himself coffee.
“Happy birthday, Em,” he said, pecking her cheek before retreating to his phone. “Took the day off. Could use a break.”
“Fancy helping?”
“Course. Just finishing this article.”
Three hours later, he was glued to the telly, engrossed in football. Emily forced a smile, kneading, frying, decorating, convincing herself today had to be perfect.
By three, her sister Claire arrived, hugging her at the door with a bouquet of roses.
“Where’s the dress? The makeup? The celebratory spark?”
“It’s all on the stove,” Emily sighed.
Noticing Robert sprawled on the sofa, Claire marched into the lounge. Moments later, he lumbered into the kitchen, sulking.
“Need a hand?”
“Set the table.”
Grumbling, he half-heartedly laid out cutlery under Claire’s watchful eye. By five, everything was nearly ready. Emily changed into a simple dress, swiped on minimal makeup—she had neither the energy nor the heart for more.
Guests trickled in by six—parents, colleagues, family friends. James slunk in with a card, Emma brought a cake. Robert suddenly came alive, cracking loud jokes, pouring wine, draping an arm around Emily for show. She smiled like a mannequin, back aching, soul hollow.
“Go easy on the puddings, Em,” Robert muttered. “You’ve been a bit… lately.”
He didn’t finish, but his glance said enough. Then, to the whole table:
“Bit dry, the beef. Last time you did it better.”
She swallowed. Stayed silent. Boiled inside.
When he raised his glass and announced, “Forty’s a serious age. Emily’s done alright, holding up… though she could’ve tried harder—” she stood.
“Cheers. I’ve nothing left to do here.”
She walked out. The room froze. Claire rose, but Emily was already in the bedroom.
At the mirror stood a woman drained, her gaze dull. But beneath it, something flickered—resolve. She shed the drab dress, pulled out a bold blue one, styled her hair, dusted on makeup, clipped on earrings Robert had given her… back when he still cared.
She dialled her friend.
“Vicky? Free tonight? I need a proper celebration.”
When she re-entered the lounge—polished, radiant—gasps followed.
“Now that’s my stunner!” Robert grinned. “Sit down, love. Party’s still on.”
Emily smiled.
“No, Rob. The party goes on without me. I’m done. With you. With all of this.”
He stiffened, laughing nervously.
“You’re joking, right? Just banter!”
“Banter? Sixteen years of your ‘jokes.’ I’m done being the punchline. Tonight, I celebrate *my* way.”
And she left. The door clicked shut behind her.
Cool air greeted her outside. Vicky’s car idled, her friend waving from the window.
Emily didn’t look back. Ahead lay an evening—just hers. And maybe, a new beginning.