**A Mother’s Bitter Celebration**
The evening in the cozy town of Wessex was steeped in the crisp air of autumn. Eleanor Whitmore, glowing with happiness, welcomed her children—Oliver and Emily—at the doorstep of her modest flat. They had come to wish her a happy birthday, and her heart swelled with joy: they hadn’t forgotten.
“Mum, here’s a little something from us,” Emily smiled, handing her a box tied with a bright ribbon.
“Oh, thank you, my darlings!” Eleanor clasped her hands, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Come in, I’ve laid out supper. Let’s go through to the sitting room!”
The children followed her into the lounge, where a celebratory spread awaited. With pride, Eleanor gestured to the dishes.
“Here you are, my loves—help yourselves! I made it all for you.”
Oliver and Emily glanced at the table and froze, their faces darkening.
“Ah, home at last, Whiskers!” Eleanor gently set her elderly cat on the floor, a companion she had brought when moving into her new flat. “Off you go, lead the way, as you should.”
The frail, slow-moving cat gingerly stepped onto the hardwood, sniffing at the unfamiliar space. Eleanor busied herself unpacking boxes of belongings from her old home. The work was exhausting, and she often paused to catch her breath—there was no one to help. Finally, with the last box emptied, she settled by the window, lost in thought.
*Tomorrow, I’ll meet the neighbours. Hopefully, they’re kind, not the quarrelling sort. Best turn in now—tomorrow’s another day.*
Eleanor had just retired. After a lifetime sewing at a textile mill, she was given a modest farewell where colleagues fondly remembered her hard work. They gifted her a photo album of factory memories and spoke warmly. But, as often happens, they soon moved on, forgetting her.
And so began her new life in a two-bedroom flat left by her late husband. Oliver and Emily had long since built their own families, leaving Whiskers as Eleanor’s only companion, often dozing on the windowsill. The visits from her children were rare, but she didn’t despair. Her husband’s extensive library kept her evenings full as she lost herself in books.
Soon, however, a pressing issue arose. The flat’s upkeep was too costly. Council tax, service charges, and maintenance fees piled up like snow. Her pension vanished before the month’s end. No matter how tightly she budgeted, money was always short.
*I must ask the children for help. The flat will be theirs one day—they ought to contribute.*
She phoned Oliver, her son, a successful garage owner in whom she’d placed high hopes. He listened, frowned, and rubbed his chin.
“Mum, bad timing. Every penny’s tied up in the business. Maybe later? Just cut back—your pension’s decent, it should cover things.”
Eleanor didn’t explain that some weeks, she could barely afford food. She only sighed and stayed quiet.
The next day, she called Emily. Her daughter was, as always, preoccupied.
“Mum, *money*? The kids need clothes, food, activities—we’re barely managing as it is!”
Knowing Emily had recently bragged about new furniture, Eleanor said nothing, only replying softly,
“Thanks for the advice, love. I’ll try to economise.”
Hanging up, she steeled herself. *Fine. If I can’t rely on them, I’ll do this alone.*
She kept a ledger, noting every expense, distressed if costs exceeded yesterday’s. She used electricity sparingly, read by daylight, conserved water, and bought the cheapest groceries.
Her children, already infrequent visitors, stopped coming altogether.
But on her birthday, Oliver and Emily arrived together. Eleanor was overjoyed. After presenting their gift—a humble tea set—she led them to the table. No other guests had come. Whiskers didn’t count. The meal was modest but made with love. Despite scrimping, she had prepared what she deemed worthy.
“Dig in, my dears!” she said proudly. “Roast potatoes with herbs, breaded fish, pickled cabbage salad. And for pudding—oat biscuits and tea.”
Oliver curled his lip.
“What *is* this? I expected your famous pies, not… canteen slop.”
“Mum, really?” Emily cut in. “Are you even happy to see us?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Eleanor’s voice trembled with hurt. “I love you and *always* want you here. But delicacies aren’t in my budget. This is how I eat—fish is a *treat* for me. Now sit down and stop this nonsense!”
“Let’s just order pizza,” Oliver said, pulling out a bottle of champagne.
“I don’t have spare cash—you know that,” Emily shrugged.
“We eat what’s here!” Eleanor snapped. “*Sit.*”
“No thanks, I can get this at a dodgy café,” Oliver scoffed, slamming the door behind him.
Emily muttered about urgent errands, kissed her mother’s cheek, and left.
Eleanor stood alone. She stared at the table, set with such care, and gave a bitter smile.
“Well, Whiskers, shall we feast? We’ve got champagne—let’s celebrate.”
She poured herself a glass. Whiskers snoozed on the sofa as the potatoes went cold. The evening was quiet, but inside, a storm raged.
Weeks passed. Emily’s phone rang. Oliver’s voice was sharp.
“You heard the news?”
“No, but by your tone, it’s serious.”
“Bloody right! Mum’s selling the flat and moving to the countryside! The neighbours talked her into it—she’s already picked a cottage. Call her or go stop her. She won’t listen to me.”
“On my way!” Emily exclaimed. “This isn’t a phone matter.”
But neither alone nor together could they sway her. Eleanor sold the flat for a good price and, without regret, moved to a spacious cottage, taking Whiskers along.
The next day, as planned, she introduced herself to the neighbours. The closest, a sturdy widower named George, greeted her warmly.
“You’ll love it here! Woods, the river, a garden. The house is sound—and if you need help, I’m just next door!” He laughed heartily.
Eleanor smiled back. She liked him instantly.
“Come for tea this evening!” she invited. With his agreement, she continued exploring the village.
The neighbours proved kind and helpful. Many, hearing she lived alone, offered assistance. Eleanor was touched.
Soon, she befriended them all, but grew especially close to George. He had moved after losing his wife and gladly helped—fixing fences, building flowerbeds. In return, Eleanor baked him pies, pouring her heart into each one.
*At last, I’m living for myself! Who knew it would turn out so well?*
With time, to her surprise, Eleanor realised she had fallen for George like a schoolgirl.
Meanwhile, in the city, life rolled on. Oliver called Emily.
“So? Found our runaway?”
“Yes, the neighbours say she’s bought a cottage nearby. No idea the price, but cheaper than the flat.”
“Then she’s got money left,” Oliver snorted. “We should talk. Dad’s inheritance is ours too. I need to expand the garage—could use the cash.”
“God, *I* need it!” Emily agreed. “Tom’s off to uni—it’s a fortune.”
“Right, let’s go,” Oliver decided.
Eleanor was gardening when George called out,
“Eleanor, visitors!”
At the gate stood Oliver with flowers and Emily with a bag of treats.
“*Eleanor*?” Oliver smirked. “Settled in fast, I see. Made friends already.”
“Don’t start,” she waved them in. “Since you’re here, come inside.”
Oliver eyed the cottage.
“How much did this dump cost? Did the flat cover it, or is there cash left?”
“Take your flowers back,” Eleanor said coldly. “No need for them here—I’ve got daisies by the window. And don’t fret over money—I’ve enough. I won’t ask for help again.”
“Mum, that’s not fair!” Emily cried. “We’re your children—we’re owed a share!”
“What share?” Eleanor’s voice turned icy. “Where were you when I begged for help with bills? Too busy to care?”
“It wasn’t the right time—” Oliver began, but she cut him off.
“Enough! The flat was *mine*. I lived there alone, and I’ve done as I please. You didn’t come for *me*—you came for money. You, Oliver, want a bigger garage. And you, Emily, probably need a new wardrobe. You don’t want a mother—you want her purse.”
“Charming welcome,” Oliver muttered.
“You’ve earned it!” Eleanor stepped onto the porch. “George, leave your work—supper’s ready! These”Guests are leaving—they’ve got the wrong address.”