*The phone trembled in her hand as her mother’s voice crackled through the receiver.*
“Darling, your father and I completely forgot to discuss your birthday!” chimed Eleanor Whitmore, her tone falsely bright. “I’ll send you the guest list now—just in case we missed anyone…”
“Mum, I can’t make it,” Elizabeth said evenly. “I won’t be coming home to the countryside.”
A sharp intake of breath. “What do you mean, *can’t*?”
“I’ve got work.”
“I won’t hear it!” boomed Henry Whitmore’s voice, cutting in. “If you don’t come, don’t bother calling us again!”
The phone might as well have turned to ice in Elizabeth’s grip. How could this happen? She had no idea they’d already planned everything—the table set, the guests invited—until the worst had dawned on them.
Henry and Eleanor had doted on their only daughter. Born to them late, when they were both well into their forties, Elizabeth had grown up coddled, cherished, with barely a boundary in sight.
Yet she hadn’t turned out spoiled. Thoughtful, kind, responsible—she’d left secondary school with top marks, graduated university with first-class honours, and landed a job straight after. That was when she first said the words that stung like rejection:
“Stop sending me money. I can manage on my own.”
“Are you sure?” Her father’s brow had furrowed.
“Absolutely. The salary’s decent. I’ll be fine.”
Her parents exchanged a glance—*this* was how children grew distant.
That visit, they’d meant to discuss her birthday, same as every year. For twenty-three years, Elizabeth had celebrated at home—with relatives, cake, and Uncle Geoff’s endless toasts. But her declaration of independence had thrown them, and the conversation never happened.
They remembered days later, after she’d already left for London.
“Sweetheart, we forgot to sort out your party,” Eleanor fretted. “I’ll send you the guest list now—”
“Mum, I’m not coming. I’ve got work.”
A stunned silence. “You’re *joking*.”
“I’m not. It’s just another weekday. My boss couldn’t care less if it’s my birthday.”
“Take the day off!” Henry cut in. “Or we’ll move it to Saturday—easy!”
“I can’t Saturday either. I’m meeting friends at a café. One of the girls is celebrating too—we’re doing it together.”
Eleanor’s voice turned brittle. “You’d rather spend your birthday with *strangers*? This is tradition! How can you break it? You *have* to come!”
“I’m sorry… but I’d rather be with my friends. I’ll visit in a fortnight—cake and all. Promise.”
“You’re betraying us,” Eleanor whispered, her voice breaking. “I never thought you’d say we weren’t enough.”
“That’s not what I said! But I’ve *grown up*. Things can’t stay the same—”
Silence. Elizabeth nearly checked the line before her father’s voice lashed out.
“Don’t you *dare* skip it! If you don’t come, consider yourself an orphan!”
“Dad, that’s *insane*!”
“‘Insane’? So family means *nothing* now? I knew it when you refused our money—turns out you don’t need *us* either.”
“Dad—”
“Enough! If you aren’t here Saturday, *never* call again!” The line went dead.
The week crawled by in guilty misery. Elizabeth wavered between anger and regret. If she gave in now, nothing would ever change. Yet her heart ached—her parents truly believed she’d abandoned them.
By Friday, she’d made her choice: it was time for boundaries. They *had* to accept she was an adult.
But she didn’t know Henry and Eleanor were so sure she’d come. All morning, they laid out plates, folded napkins, greeted guests. Only as evening neared, the clock ticking past seven, did it sink in—Elizabeth wasn’t coming.
They sent the guests away, faces stiff, and sat before an untouched cake.
“What a disaster…” Eleanor murmured, swiping at a tear.
“Nonsense!” Henry snapped, pouring himself a glass of champagne. “We’re celebrating anyway.”
By eight, buzzed and bitter, they video-called her.
“Having fun with strangers while we sit here alone?” Henry sneered.
Elizabeth flushed. “See? Nothing terrible happened… Where is everyone?”
“Gone,” Eleanor said flatly. “No birthday girl, no party. Not even a ‘thank you’ for bringing you into this world twenty-three years ago!”
“Who’re you talking to?” Henry scoffed. “She *chose* them over us, and you’re being soft. As if she’s grateful!”
“I didn’t *choose*—”
“Save it,” he spat. “First our money, now *us*.”
“I’m *an adult*! Why won’t you understand? I want to celebrate my way—”
“So you won’t come for Christmas either,” Eleanor said coldly. “Fine. We’ll just… erase you.”
“Why wait?” Henry growled, pulling up his contacts. With one tap, her number vanished. “Done.”
Elizabeth’s voice trembled. “I hope one day you realise how unfair you’re being…” The screen went black.
Henry and Eleanor felt utterly betrayed. To them, their daughter had cut them off for good.
But Elizabeth held no grudge. She just hoped—one day—they’d accept the truth: she wasn’t a girl anymore.
She was a woman. With her own wants. Her own choices. Her own life.