My birthday has always been my special day, my selfish day. The day I came into this world. The day I get what I want.
Sinking into the deep-pile of the new carpet, I carry a gift of flowers. A beautiful winter bouquet; the white of snow, the lilac of glaciers and the blue of cold mornings, all mixed together with evergreen.
But even though it’s my birthday, the flowers aren’t for me.
They’re for her, for the woman standing by the open kitchen door.
Stepping over the grandchild, my child, playing by her feet, I give my mum flowers on my birthday.