“The Surprise Won’t Be for You”

“Mum, please don’t tell me you forgot!” shrieked Emily as she burst into the hallway, throwing her designer handbag onto the sofa. “I told you a month ago!”

Margaret turned slowly from the mirror where she had been adjusting her silver hair. Her hands trembled slightly, but her gaze remained steady.

“What are you talking about, love?” she asked softly.

“What do you mean?!” Emily tossed her bag down. “It’s James’s fifteenth birthday tomorrow! You’re not telling me you’ve forgotten?”

“No, I remember…” Margaret settled into her armchair, folding her hands in her lap. “I just thought perhaps we shouldn’t make such a fuss…”

“A fuss?” Emily froze, staring at her mother. “He’s my son! Your grandson! Fifteen years old! And you’re saying we shouldn’t celebrate?”

Margaret sighed. She knew what was coming. It was always like this when Emily visited with James for the weekend. Her daughter had always been fiery, demanding—and since the divorce, it had only gotten worse.

“Emily, calm down. I haven’t forgotten. I got him a gift, and I ordered a cake from the bakery,” she said wearily. “But perhaps he won’t want a big celebration? He’s been so quiet lately…”

“Quiet?” Emily scoffed. “He’s a teenager! All teenagers are quiet around adults. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want a party. If anything, we need to show him we care!”

From the hallway came the creak of floorboards. James appeared—tall, lanky, with messy brown hair and his father’s solemn blue eyes.

“Hey, Gran,” he muttered, glancing at his mum. “Why are you shouting?”

“We’re not shouting, we’re talking about your birthday,” Emily cooed, switching tones instantly. “It’s your big day tomorrow, darling! Gran’s got you a cake, I’ve brought presents…”

“Don’t need anything,” James mumbled, perching on the edge of the sofa. “Not bothered.”

“How can you not be bothered?” Emily flared. “Fifteen is important!”

James shrugged and buried himself in his phone. Margaret watched him uneasily. Something wasn’t right. For months, he’d grown more withdrawn, barely speaking to her, answering his mother in monosyllables.

“James, love, what would you like for your gift?” she asked gently.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Emily sat beside him. “What about a new phone? Or we could upgrade your laptop?”

“Mum, leave it,” James stood abruptly. “Gonna go upstairs.”

“Wait, we’ve only just got here!” Emily jumped up. “Let’s plan who to invite—”

“Don’t want anyone!” James snapped, turning sharply. “Got it? No one! Just wanna be left alone!”

“But why?” Emily sounded lost. “You used to love birthdays…”

“Used to,” James gave a bitter half-smile. “Lots of things used to be different. Don’t pretend you actually care about these stupid parties now.”

He slammed the door behind him. Emily stood frozen, mouth open.

“What’s wrong with him?” she turned to her mother. “He was never like this before!”

Margaret exhaled heavily. She’d watched her grandson change—watched him ache from the divorce, torn between his parents, exhausted by their bickering.

“Emily, sit down,” she urged. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” Emily paced. “It’s obvious! David’s turning him against me! I know how he twists things!”

“It’s not David’s doing,” Margaret said carefully. “James is just tired. Tired of the arguments, the back-and-forth…”

“What arguments?” Emily bristled. “We divorced amicably!”

“Amicably?” Margaret shook her head. “Emily, I hear you on the phone with his father. The sniping, the custody arrangements…”

“I’m fighting for my son!” Emily’s voice rose.

“And so is David. And James knows it. He’s caught in the middle.” Margaret stood, touching her daughter’s arm. “Love, perhaps think of him, not yourself?”

“I *am* thinking of him!” Emily pulled away. “That’s why I want to celebrate! To show he’s loved!”

“Or you could show him he’s safe. That home is peaceful.”

Emily huffed and walked to the window. Outside, drizzle blurred the garden into grey.

“You’re taking his side, aren’t you?” she whispered. “Just like everyone else.”

“I’m on *his* side. And yours. But sometimes what we think is right… isn’t what’s needed.”

“What do you mean?”

Margaret sat back down, choosing her words.

“When you were little, I thought I knew best. Made you take piano when you wanted art lessons. Sent you to ballet when you fancied football. I believed I was preparing you for life.”

“And?” Emily frowned.

“And you grew up and rebelled. Did the opposite, sometimes just to spite me. Because I never asked what *you* wanted.”

“What’s that got to do with James?”

“Everything. He doesn’t want a party. He’s told you. But you’re not listening.”

“He’s a child! They don’t always know what’s best!”

“Do we?” Margaret smiled sadly. “I’m seventy-two, dear. Children often know exactly what they need. We just don’t want to hear it.”

Emily sank onto the arm of her mother’s chair.

“Mum, I’m so scared of losing him,” she admitted. “Since the divorce, he’s like a stranger. I thought a party would prove I love him.”

“He already knows,” Margaret patted her hand. “Right now, he needs calm. Stability. Not forced smiles.”

“So what do we do? Nothing?”

“Ask him. Honestly. What he wants. Then do *that*.”

Emily hesitated. Rain drummed harder against the window.

“Alright,” she finally nodded. “But what if he says nothing?”

“Then we’re simply there. Sometimes that’s enough.”

The floorboard creaked again. James hovered in the doorway.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course, love.”

He sat opposite them, fidgeting with a cushion.

“Sorry I yelled,” he muttered. “Just… sick of it all.”

“Sick of what?” Emily asked softly.

“You and Dad. Always asking if I’m okay, if anyone’s upset me—but you can’t even talk to each other without sniping.”

“We try…”

“Try?” James looked up. “Mum, I’m not stupid. I see how tense you get when he calls. How Dad mutters about you being dramatic. D’you think that’s easy for me?”

Emily faltered. She hadn’t realised he noticed.

“James, we divorced civilly—”

“Civilly?” He barked a laugh. “You pace the kitchen after his calls calling him a prat. He tells me you’re unreliable. That’s civil?”

“James—”

“And now you want a birthday party.” His voice cracked. “All fake smiles and cake. Like I don’t know you can’t stand each other.”

“We don’t—!”

“Just *stop*.” James stood. “If you love me, why can’t you *talk* properly? Why do I have to *choose*?”

Emily reached for him. “We don’t ask you to choose!”

“You do! Dad quizzes me about whether I miss him when I’m with you. You grill me about what he says. I’m *done*.”

He dropped his face into his hands.

“Know what I want?” he choked out. “For you to stop fighting. To just… be in the same room without making digs. To let me love you both without feeling guilty.”

Emily knelt before him.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t realise…”

“Realise what? That I have feelings too?”

“I just wanted to protect you.”

“From *Dad*?” James shook his head. “He’s my father, Mum. I love him. Like I love you. Why can’t that be enough?”

“It is,” Margaret said softly. “Emily?”

Emily swallowed. “I hear you. I just… don’t know how to fix it.”

“Start small,” James said. “Tomorrow. If you *have* to do a party… invite Dad.”

“What? But we—”

“You’re divorced, I know. But you’re both my parents. If it’s *my* day, I want you both there.”

“But how—?”

“*Try*,” James pleaded. “Ring him. Say it’s for me.”

Emily looked to her mother. Margaret nodded.

“Alright,” she breathed. “I’ll try.”

James smiled—properly, for the first time all evening.

“Then we’ll have a party. Just a quiet one. The four of us.”

“FourMargaret reached for her grandson’s hand, her heart swelling with hope as she whispered, “Tomorrow will be a fresh start for all of us.”