The Country Cottage Bill
Emily had always assumed that bitter sibling rivalries were something that happened to neighbours or distant relatives like Aunt Clara in Manchester. Yet reality proved more mundane, with no need to wait for inheritance disputes over their parents’ flat or ageing cottage.
Ironically, the cottage became the root of a major quarrel between sisters—Emily and Charlotte—though the conflict wasn’t about inheritance or who’d weed the vegetable patch.
With the May bank holiday approaching, travelling beyond the county felt impossible. Train tickets had sold out instantly, and Emily loathed long car journeys—cramped, tedious, and hardly a holiday if you were driving.
“Why not stay at my cottage?” Charlotte suggested. “It’s no five-star hotel, but it’s cosy. The kids can play outside, and we’ll keep busy—like an outdoor fitness retreat!” she added, half-joking.
“Let’s do it!” Emily agreed, lacking alternatives. Staying in their stuffy city or visiting their parents’ cottage—where relaxation was impossible—seemed worse.
The sisters weren’t close, but Emily couldn’t recall major disagreements. A seven-year age gap meant Charlotte had left for university while Emily was still in primary school. By the time Emily graduated, Charlotte had married Oliver and returned home with their toddler, Lily.
“We’ll barbecue, and I’ll make Oliver whip up his homemade liqueurs—you know how he obsesses over recipes, though he never drinks them!” Charlotte chirped over the phone.
Emily hadn’t known about Oliver’s liqueur hobby but humoured her sister, eager to keep the peace.
“Perfect! We’ll bring cake and fruit. The forecast’s sunny—we’ll finally thaw out after winter!”
Emily’s twin sons matched Charlotte’s youngest in age, promising lively days ahead.
On May Day, Emily’s family crawled through gridlocked city traffic, buoyed by the shared excitement of escaping urban bustle.
“Finally! We’ve been waiting ages,” Charlotte greeted them at the gate, boasting about the feast, weather, and Oliver’s newly built barbecue patio.
“Let’s refrigerate the cake—it’s been in the car over an hour,” Emily said, while the boys kicked a football in the garden.
The evening was idyllic: homemade liqueurs, roasted vegetables, and laughter. The cake waited until morning.
“When did we last talk like this?” Charlotte mused as they cleared the table.
“Life’s always rushing. Shame Tom has work between holidays—we’d have stayed longer,” Emily admitted, surprising herself.
“Stay with the boys! Tom can fetch you before the weekend.”
They agreed. Sunny days followed—kids outdoors, sisters grocery shopping, Oliver occasionally joining. Emily tried contributing, but Charlotte insisted:
“Stop! I’ve got this. Don’t you trust me?” She piled the trolley daily with gourmet items.
The bliss shattered on departure day. Another lavish spread awaited, but Emily’s appetite had vanished.
“The first night was fine, but Tom, imagine—feasts every day! Charlotte must’ve spent a fortune,” Emily vented later.
Soon, the bill arrived. Charlotte produced a notebook, receipts meticulously taped beside calculated shares for utilities, food, even the children’s portions.
“When did she find time?” Tom muttered, reaching for his wallet, short on cash.
“Can I transfer it?” he asked awkwardly.
“Cash only. Cards are risky these days. Did you expect a free nine-day holiday? I’ve charged barely half what a rental would cost!”
Charlotte’s rehearsed tirade continued. They scrounged £250, promising the remaining £375 later.
The drive home was silent until Emily erupted: “Why did we need mussels or anchovies? We barely touched them! Artie only ate cucumbers—she charged us for him like an adult!”
“Enough,” Tom snapped. “£250’s plenty for ‘hospitality.’”
But Charlotte called hourly: “Ungrateful! Your kids broke my chairs—will you cover repairs too?”
After the third call, they ignored her. Yet it worsened.
Returning home, Emily’s phone rang—her mother, Margaret:
“Emily, repay Charlotte immediately! Times are hard—don’t embarrass us further.”
“Mum, it was her idea—” The line went dead.
Emily sobbed until Tom intervened: “Should I just pay?”
“No!” she snapped. “This is a joke. How could Mum side with her?”
Tom drove to the cottage that night, finding a party in full swing—laughter, music, new guests.
“Emily’s devastated, and Charlotte’s already moved on. Bet they’ve got another bill ready,” he thought, turning home.
The family never discussed it again. Three months passed without contact until a text arrived:
“If you think I forgot the debt, think again. School starts soon—I need £375. Don’t delay.”
Emily deleted it, blocking Charlotte’s number. That Friday, they left for a holiday park—their third that summer.
“Always wanted a cottage,” Tom remarked, “but now? Thank God we never bought one.”
