Chapter 5: The Thing About Birthdays
His birthday was the twenty-third.
He was turning twenty.
Ryan told me what Pete had said — that Danny hadn't mentioned it to anyone at work, that Pete had only found out because it came up on the company system when HR sent round the birthday list.
Danny had specifically asked them not to put it in the group chat.
"He didn't want a fuss," Ryan said.
"He didn't want to have a birthday without his mum," I said.
Ryan looked at me.
"Yeah."
I thought about that for the rest of Sunday.
I thought about it while I was bathing the kids, while I was reading the six-year-old his chapter, while I was sitting in the dark next to the baby's cot waiting for her to go down properly.
A twentieth birthday.
The first one without her.
Monday morning I rang Ryan's mum.
Her name is Brenda and she lives twenty minutes away in the same house Ryan grew up in.
She picked up on the second ring.
"I was wondering when you'd call," she said.
"You knew I'd call?"
"Ryan told me about the dish.
And about you making a new one." A pause.
"He said you used a proper béchamel."
"I did."
"Good girl."
I told her about the birthday.
She was quiet for a moment.
"His mum's name was Carol," Brenda said.
"Pete told me when Ryan rang on Saturday.
She was forty-four."
Forty-four.
Younger than me.
"Did she know?" I said.
"That she was ill?"
"For about eight months, from what Pete said.
She worked as long as she could."
I stood in my kitchen with the baby on my hip and the phone pressed to my ear and I thought about a woman of forty-four going to work for as long as she could so her son wouldn't see her stop.
"I want to do something for his birthday," I said.
"Nothing big.
Nothing that makes him feel like a charity case.
Just something."
"I've been thinking the same thing since Saturday night," Brenda said.
"I've got an idea, but I didn't want to overstep."
"Tell me."
"Carol used to make him a Victoria sponge.
Every year, apparently.
Pete mentioned it — said Danny brought one in last year and shared it round the site.
Said his mum had been up at six in the morning to make sure it was fresh." She paused.
"I know how to make a Victoria sponge."
I closed my eyes for a second.
"Brenda."
"I won't write anything on it," she said quickly.
"No 'Happy Birthday,' none of that.
Just the cake.
He can do whatever he wants with it.
Eat it alone if he needs to.
I just thought — if someone made it — he'd know someone was thinking of him."
"Yes," I said.
"Do it."
"You're sure?"
"I'm completely sure."
There was a warmth in her voice when she said goodbye that made my throat tighten slightly.
I put the phone down and looked at the baby, who was examining my chin with great concentration.
"Your gran's a good woman," I told her.
She grabbed my nose.
Ryan came home that evening and I told him the plan.
He sat at the kitchen table and listened, and when I finished he was quiet for a moment.
"Mum's going to make the sponge," he said, like he was making sure he'd heard correctly.
"Yes."
"And we drop it Saturday morning."
"You drop it.
I'll have the kids.
Keep it low-key, don't make it a moment, just leave it and go."
He nodded slowly.
"She was forty-four," he said.
"I know."
"Danny's twenty next week and his mum was forty-four."
"Ryan."
He looked up.
"Ring Callum tonight," I said.
Something crossed his face.
Not surprise exactly.
More like recognition — the feeling of being seen doing something you didn't know you were doing.
"Yeah," he said.
"Okay."
He rang him after dinner.
I could hear the low murmur of his voice from the kitchen while I was washing up.
He was in there for nearly an hour.
When he came back his eyes were slightly red at the edges and he didn't explain it and I didn't ask.
May you like
He just picked up a tea towel and started drying the dishes.
That was enough.
