**Diary Entry**
Mum’s coming? Cancel! We’ve got my ex dropping by!
I was at the stove, the kitchen thick with the scent of roast beef and herbs. A rare evening where I’d actually put in effort beyond scrambled eggs. Wiping my brow, I turned and shouted:
— Oliver, you *do* remember my mum’s visiting tomorrow, right?
A moment later, he shuffled into the doorway—hair tousled, eyes bleary.
— What mum? — He blinked. — Did you mention this?
— *Yes!* Days ago! — I frowned. — We agreed she’d come Sunday.
Oliver suddenly stiffened, then blurted:
— Call it off. She can’t come. Not tomorrow.
— Why on earth not?
— Well… Emily’s stopping by.
— *Who’s* Emily?
He exhaled. — My ex.
Dead silence. Then I coughed—unsure whether to laugh or scream.
— Are you *kidding*? You want your ex staying here *the same day* my mum visits?
— It’s not like that! Just one night! She’s had a row with her bloke, nowhere else to go. Couple days max. We’re *done*, you know that! She’s just in a bind!
— And you don’t think how this looks? Mum walks in, and there’s your *past flame* lounging about. Brilliant first impression.
— We’ll say she’s *your* friend. You’re a decent actress—sell it!
I rolled my eyes, but already, my mind raced: Emily sashaying in, calling me “the wife” straight off. Revolting… yet intriguing.
That evening, the doorbell rang. Emily stood there—tall, polished, bobbed hair, designer handbag. Her gaze swept over me, calculating.
— Ah, so *you’re* the missus. Got it. Don’t fret—I’m only crashing briefly. Won’t lay a finger on *your* husband.
I bit my tongue. — Room on the right. My mum arrives tomorrow—keep a low profile.
She stepped inside as I retreated to the kitchen, where supper was cooling.
— Fancy joining us, Emily?
— Absolutely! Is that shepherd’s pie? Tell me you didn’t *actually* make it. Store-bought pastry and mince, yeah?
— Suit yourself. — My lips twitched despite myself.
Then, utterly unruffled, she said:
— Want me to show you how it’s *properly* done? My gran was a chef—taught me everything.
Just like that, the evening unfolded—one we’d both remember. By midnight, we were nattering like old mates, swapping tales about men, recipes, even fashion. For once, I didn’t feel like just “the wife.” I was *seen*. Emily wasn’t some rival—she was… refreshing.
Morning came. Emily left for work, and soon, Mum—Margaret—knocked. The smell of homemade roast hit her instantly.
— *You* made this? — Her brows shot up. — Since when?
I nearly glowed with pride, nodding. I knew exactly who to thank—that *ex*.
Later, Emily rang:
— I’m back with James. We sorted things. Thanks for the dress tips, by the way—he was *gobsmacked* at the gala. Said he’s taking me to every work do now. Oh, and we landed the contract! You’re a gem. I’ll pop by tomorrow for my things—and give you a proper hug!
Hanging up, I eyed Oliver.
— You were right. She’s… lovely. And maybe now I know who I am. Not just your wife. A woman who’s got something to offer.
— Blimey, if you’re *friends* with Emily now, the world’s officially mad. — He threw up his hands.
— Just don’t meddle, — I smiled, — and we’ll be fine.
