**A Bitter New Year’s Surprise**
Elizabeth was dusting the shelves when the phone rang. Her mother’s number flashed on the screen, sending a flutter through her chest—Margaret Whitmore seldom called, and when she did, it usually meant she wanted something. *“Lizzy, hello!”* Her mother’s voice was as commanding as ever. *“Mum? Hello, it’s been a while,”* Elizabeth replied, a faint unease settling in.
*“Busy as ever, dear. Work, the house, endless chores. How are you?”* Margaret’s tone carried its usual frost.
*“I’m fine,”* Elizabeth answered, bracing for the catch.
*“Your father and I are hosting New Year’s. You and Oliver will come, won’t you?”* The question caught Elizabeth off guard, and she froze.
*“You’re inviting us?”* she asked, hardly believing her ears.
*“Of course,”* Margaret scoffed. *“You’re our daughter. Your sister Beatrice, your brother Charles—they’ll all be there with their families. Children, spouses, the lot. Do join us.”*
*“Alright, we’ll come,”* Elizabeth said, warmth spreading in her chest. Her parents rarely invited her over, and this felt like a small miracle.
*“Splendid. Be here by seven on the thirty-first. And don’t forget the gifts—no showing up empty-handed.”* Her mother paused. *“For the men, a fine cologne. Beatrice and Charles’s wife—gold jewellery. I’d like a china set, Wedgwood if you can manage it. Understood?”*
*“Yes, Mum.”* Elizabeth hesitated. *“I’ll stop by the department store later. Perhaps some toys for the children?”*
*“Toys?”* Margaret drawled. *“Your nieces and nephews want gadgets, the latest models. The eldest has his heart set on the newest iPhone.”*
*“That’s rather expensive…”* Elizabeth exhaled.
*“Find a sale,”* her mother snapped before hanging up.
*“See you then,”* Elizabeth murmured to the silent line, but her spirits remained high. She was simply glad her family had remembered her.
Elizabeth had always been the youngest—the afterthought. Beatrice and Charles barely spoke to her, and her parents had long been distant. After school, she’d left home, studied accounting, and landed a job at a prominent firm. There, she met Oliver—the managing director, sharp and kind. Their whirlwind romance led to marriage, and when her family learned she’d married well, their indifference curdled into something colder.
Beatrice made no secret of her resentment, insisting life had been unfair—Elizabeth didn’t *deserve* a husband so wealthy and charming, not when her own marriage was so dull. Margaret sided with her eldest, lamenting how Beatrice had drawn the short straw. Charles and their father sneered at Oliver, calling him *“pompous”* though he was anything but. Elizabeth became the outsider, never quite grasping why. Her family only called when they needed money, and she never refused, eager for even scraps of their affection.
This New Year’s, they’d compiled a list of extravagant gifts. Margaret’s call was merely to reel her in, ensuring she knew exactly what to buy. Elizabeth didn’t protest—she and Oliver had plenty. She worked, and his business thrived.
After spending a small fortune, Elizabeth and Oliver arrived at her parents’ on the thirty-first. Her nephew opened the door, but no adults came to greet them. A twinge of disappointment pricked her, but she shook it off. Stepping into the parlour, she chirped, *“Happy New Year!”*—only to be met with silence. The lively chatter had died the moment they entered.
*“You came, then,”* Beatrice muttered, eyeing Oliver.
*“We were invited,”* Elizabeth said awkwardly, feeling like an intruder.
*“Can’t unsee you now,”* Charles grumbled.
*“We brought gifts!”* Elizabeth tried to lighten the mood, pulling out boxes.
*“Oh, now *that’s* more like it,”* Margaret perked up. The children swarmed, tearing into the parcels.
Elizabeth handed them out, hoping for joy—but the responses stunned her. *“This scent isn’t for me,”* Charles wrinkled his nose at the cologne. *“The bracelet’s *alright*, but I expected better,”* Beatrice sniffed, twisting it on her wrist. *“Wedgwood?”* Margaret exclaimed. *“This belongs in a cabinet, not a dining room!”* They preened over their presents, yet not a single *“thank you”* passed their lips.
When they gathered at the table, piling their plates, Elizabeth and Oliver lingered by the door—no seats had been spared for them. *“Mum, where should we sit?”* Elizabeth asked softly. *“Can’t eat standing up?”* Charles jeered. *“Fetch a chair from next door if you’re so fussy,”* Margaret dismissed.
Oliver leaned close. *“Shall we go home?”* At last, Elizabeth understood—they weren’t wanted. *“Yes, let’s,”* she said. *“But not empty-handed.”* She gathered the appetisers she’d brought, while Oliver collected the wine. Then he plucked the bracelet from Beatrice’s wrist. *“It suits you better,”* he told his wife.
*“What on earth?”* Beatrice shrieked. *“Have you lost your minds?”*
*“Mum, that china doesn’t suit you,”* Elizabeth said, tipping the box onto the floor. *“For luck. Happy New Year!”* Oliver took her hand, and they left.
After the holidays, her family never called. At first, Elizabeth grieved—but soon, she realised: she’d no interest in buying their love. *“You’re better off without them,”* Oliver said, and she nodded, wiping her tears. Her family was him—not the people who’d only ever seen her as a purse.