Book 3: Stop Being a Housewife
9/11
Chapter 7
On my thirty–fifth birthday, I finally put on the white dress I’d bought ages ago but never
worn.
I got a cake and eagerly waited for my husband and son to celebrate with me.
My husband glanced at it dismissively and said, “You’re too old for this, celebrating birthdays like other people. Don’t embarrass yourself!”
My son, wearing the new shoes I bought for him, mocked, “Mom, that dress looks terrible on you. It’s not as nice as Auntie Daisy’s.”
Yet, when I turned around, they were celebrating Daisy Morgan’s birthday on her Instagram.
11/11
Book 3 Stop Being a Housewife
Book 3 Stop Being a Housewife
On my thirty–fifth birthday, I finally put on the white dress I’d bought ages ago but never worn.
I got a cake and eagerly waited for my husband and son to celebrate with me.
My husband glanced at it dismissively and said, “You’re too old for this, celebrating birthdays like other people. Don’t embarrass yourself”
My son, wearing the new shoes I bought for him, mocked, “Mom, that dress looks terrible on you. It’s not as nice as Auntie Daisy’s.”
Yet, when I turned around, they were celebrating Daisy Morgan’s birthday on her Instagram.
1/9
Book 3 Stop Being a Housewife
“You should really try to lose some weight. Look at that dress on you, it makes you look like a pole. And here you are, eating cake without a care, my husband, Gareth Baxton, pointedly remarks in front of our son.
“Also, you’re in your thirties now–can’t you be a bit more mature? What’s so special about a birthday anyway? Stop doing what everyone else does and have some of your own opinions.”
I paused with the birthday cake in my hands, thinking. I’m only thirty–five, how am I being immature? Is celebrating a birthday really so frivolous?
He wasn’t always like this. There was a time when he would subtly try to find out what I
2/9
wanted for my birthday, starting a month in advance.
And on my birthday, he would surprise me with a gift. He used to say he loved seeing my delighted smile, that it gave him a sense of pride and satisfaction.
He promised to spend every birthday with
- me.
But a lifetime turned out to be too short.
Our son is seven this year–he mumbled around a piece of gum, “Mom, that dress you’re wearing is ugly. It’s not as pretty as Aunt Daisy’s. Don’t wear it next time.”
I gently set the cake down, gazing at the two of them. I quietly asked, “Do you really have to ruin my birthday?”
3/9
Wile
Gareth’s face flickered with an awkward expression. “You’re too sensitive. Can’t handle a bit of criticism?”
Just then, his phone rang, and I heard him say, “I’ll be there right away.”
He ended the call and bent down to ask our son, “Noah, how about coming with Dad to see Aunt Daisy?”
Our son cheered in excitement.
Holding Noah, Gareth walked out, but not before giving me a cold stare and saying, “When will you stop being so petty? I’m worried our son will pick up these bad habits from you. Think about it.”
Noah stuck his tongue out at me from his dad’s back.
4/9
The room fell silent instantly. I stared blankly at the cake in my hands for a long time before lighting the candles.
Watching the flames dance eerily in the still air, I made a wish for the first time in fifteen years that was about me–hoping for Lovelyn Jones to find happiness.
When I met Gareth at twenty, my birthday wishes were always for him: hoping his work would go well, wishing for his cold to heal soon, and wishing for everything to go smoothly in his life. After Noah was born, my wishes shifted to his well–being: that Noah would be safe and healthy, that Noah would find joy and peace.
For fifteen years, none of my birthday wishes were about myself.
After blowing out the candles, I sat
one in
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the empty living room, eating the cake one bite at a time.
Oddly, today the cake tasted overwhelmingly sweet.
Absentmindedly, I opened Instagram on my phone.
The first post was from Daisy Morgan: “Wishing for the same happiness today, for many more years to come.”
It was a picture of Daisy smiling at the camera, holding a cake. On either side of her were my husband and son.
No wonder Gareth said I was just mimicking someone else’s birthday–turns out today is Daisy Morgan’s birthday too.
Yet, he chose to be with her instead of me.
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My eyes focused on the necklace around her neck.
I’d seen it in Gareth’s pocket last week, thinking it was my birthday gift.
But now, it hangs around another woman’s neck.
It doesn’t matter; wearing a necklace isn’t practical with all the chores I do.
Still, why am I so upset? My eyes sting–I try to hold back the tears.
7/
