In our family, there has always been one peculiar, unwritten rule: everyone received birthday gifts, attention, and warm wishes — everyone except me.
Year after year, I heard the same dismissive phrase:

“Why do you need presents? You already have everything. It’s just a waste of money.”

At first, I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter. Adults don’t always need gifts, right? But over time I began to notice something far more painful — it wasn’t just about presents. I slowly turned into someone whose feelings, desires, and needs were simply… invisible. My birthdays became quiet formalities, something people acknowledged out of obligation rather than love.

And every year, the same sentence cut me deeper than the year before:

“You’re the strong one. You don’t need anything.”

But this year — the year I turned sixty — something inside me shifted. For the first time in my life, I wanted a real celebration. Something for me.
So I booked a beautiful restaurant, arranged the decorations, selected the menu, bought myself a dress I had dreamed of wearing for years.

I wanted to feel like a woman worth celebrating.
A mother who mattered.
A person who deserved at least one day of joy.

I imagined a warm family gathering. I imagined smiles, hugs, conversations.
I imagined belonging.

But instead, I got the biggest humiliation of my life.

My daughters arrived first. Stunning, confident, always sure of themselves. They didn’t say a word about the decorations, the atmosphere, or my dress.
Their hands were empty — no flowers, no box, not even a symbolic little gift.

The older one sighed the moment she walked in:

“Mom, seriously? A restaurant? We thought this was some kind of misunderstanding. You could’ve just invited us home.”

The younger added without hiding her annoyance:

“Yeah, this is ridiculous. Why would you throw money around like this? And who are all these people you invited?”

Cold spread through my chest. Not because of their words — they’ve spoken to me like this for years.
But because they arrived already angry, as if my happiness was an inconvenience to them.

Still, I tried to carry on. I welcomed guests, smiled, thanked people for coming. I tried to ignore the tight knot of disappointment in my stomach.

When everyone finally sat down, I stood up with trembling hands, ready to make my birthday toast. I had prepared it for days — heartfelt words for everyone who came, words about how special this day was to me.

But I barely managed two sentences before my older daughter abruptly stood up from her chair.

“Mom, please… enough. We’re adults. You don’t need to make such a performance out of this. We came, we congratulated you. What more do you want?”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Guests shifted uncomfortably, unsure where to look.

My voice cracked:

“All I wanted… was to spend this day with you. To feel that it matters… just once.”

The younger daughter rolled her eyes.

“Here we go again. You always act like you’re some kind of victim.”

And with that, they both walked out — without saying goodbye, without even glancing back.
They left deliberately and loudly, as if making a point.

My husband remained silent the entire evening. He barely looked at me during the celebration, only occasionally glancing my way with irritation.

When the last guests left and we were finally alone, he delivered his verdict:

“You embarrassed us. Everyone probably thinks we can’t control you.”

He hasn’t spoken to me since.

Now, several days later, I sit alone in the quiet and keep asking myself the same question:

What did I do wrong?

Is it truly so terrible to want to celebrate your own birthday?
To feel loved — just once?
To hope your family sees you as someone worth a little effort?

Why is it acceptable for everyone else to wish, to dream, to expect affection… and yet for me, those same desires are treated as selfish or shameful?

Why is my joy considered “a waste of money”?
Why is my happiness an inconvenience?
Why does my existence seem to burden the very people who should be closest to me?

But the most painful thought of all is the one I can’t push away:

Maybe I spent my entire life waiting for love from people who simply never learned how to give it.

And if that’s true…
Why did it take me sixty years to finally see it?