Siob only wanted a quiet birthday dinner for her 85th, but the family decided she “deserved” the most expensive place in town. They didn’t just hijack her night; they left her sitting alone at the table when the bill arrived. Nobody treats my Agnes like that. Not even family.
Agnes is the one who always has warm shortbread waiting, never forgets a birthday, and turns every gathering into something soft and safe. If anyone had earned a perfect evening, it was her.
So when she said, “Just a small dinner out this year, love,” I promised myself I’d make it happen.
Eighty-five is a milestone. Good food, a few familiar faces, no fuss. Simple. But the rest of the family had louder plans.
“Agnes deserves something spectacular,” Aunt Morag announced in the group chat. “Not some sad little meal.”
They insisted on the poshest steakhouse in the city. It might have looked generous if it hadn’t been so obviously about them.
That Sunday I stepped outside for air and overheard Hamish and Fergus plotting by the garden gate.
“Siob won’t say no,” Hamish whispered. “Bank job, lives alone, no kids. She’s loaded.”
Fergus laughed under his breath. “We smile, order whatever we want, then look shocked when the bill comes. She’ll pay. She always does.”
“What about Agnes?” Fergus asked. “Tell her to bring money too?”
“Nah,” Hamish said. “She’ll offer anyway. And Saint Siob will swoop in like clockwork.”
My stomach twisted. Using Agnes on her own birthday? Turning her celebration into their free feast?
I would have happily paid for a night that made her smile. Being treated like a human credit card was another story.
Fine. Let’s play it your way, I thought, and walked back inside.
That evening I collected Agnes. She clutched her little handbag and beamed the whole drive, as if we were off on an adventure.
The others behaved like they’d been invited to a red-carpet event. Hamish took a hundred photos “for the memories,” ordering bottle after bottle of wine. Fergus worked his way through the top-shelf whiskies, announcing each one like he was on television.
Morag pushed the lobster, the wagyu, every overpriced side on the menu. Through it all, Agnes just glowed.
“This is lovely,” she whispered to me. “I never dreamed of all this fuss.”
“I’m glad you’re happy,” I said, squeezing her hand, already bracing for what I knew was coming.
I kept my own order small (one modest steak, one glass of house red). Agnes did the same.
“Sure that’s enough, Siob?” Uncle Morag’s husband, Fergus, teased. “Live a little! It’s a celebration!”
I smiled politely. “This is plenty, thank you.”
Then the bill landed.
Agnes had just gone to the ladies’. Right on cue, the performance started.
“Goodness, that’s steep,” Morag said, peering at the total like she’d never seen numbers before. “We’re still recovering from the new kitchen…”
Hamish suddenly discovered something fascinating on her phone. “I’m totally skint after those festival tickets. Mental health, you know.”
Fergus sighed dramatically. “Vet bills for the dog are brutal. I’m tapped out.”
Uncle Fergus flashed his watch and grinned. “We all knew you’d sort it, Siob. Big job, house nearly paid off… you’re the responsible one. We’ll send you good vibes.”
Morag laid on the guilt thick. “It’s for Agnes. Might not be many more birthdays, you know.”
The bill was over eight hundred pounds. Their share was easily six-fifty.
I was shaking with anger, but Agnes walked back in just then. I wasn’t about to spoil her night with a scene.
“Give me two minutes,” I said calmly, and headed for the manager’s office.
Fifteen minutes later I returned. Agnes sat alone at the long table, clutching her purse, eyes wide and confused.
“Nana, you all right?”
“There you are!” Relief flooded her face. “They all rushed off saying they were bringing the cars round… but it’s been ages.”
She leaned in and whispered, “Are we okay for the bill, love? I’ve a bit saved if we need it…”
My heart broke. They’d left an eighty-five-year-old woman worried and alone on her birthday.
“Everything’s taken care of,” I told her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
We stayed long enough for the staff to bring Agnes a surprise chocolate cake with one candle. The whole team sang “Happy Birthday.” She still looked bewildered, but she smiled through it.
On the drive home she asked quietly, “Where did everyone go?”
“They had somewhere else to be, I suppose,” I said lightly. “Selfish of them, but I’m glad I got the best part of the evening with just you. Did you have a good birthday, Agnes?”
She nodded, but I saw the hurt in her eyes.
By the next morning my phone was exploding.
Morag rang first, furious. “The restaurant keeps phoning us! How dare they! This is your doing, Siob!”
Hamish left a three-minute voicemail about how I’d “ruined everything” and “we were only getting the cars!”
Fergus sent increasingly desperate texts calling me every name under the sun.
Uncle Fergus demanded I “fix it” because the manager was now talking about small claims court.
I may have forgotten to mention: the manager, Calum, is my old uni mate.
While they were sneaking out the kitchen exit (caught perfectly on CCTV), I’d quietly given Calum every one of their full names, numbers, and addresses.
He only charged me for Agnes’s meal and mine. The rest is being collected from them directly, with late fees if they keep dodging.
Agnes rang later just to say thank you again for the night.
“I only wish the others hadn’t disappeared,” she said softly.
“Don’t you worry about them,” I told her, grinning at the thought of Hamish opening the official demand letter. “They won’t try that again.”
Next year Agnes and I are going somewhere small and peaceful. Just the two of us.
And my phone will stay on silent.