The Mother’s Visit? Cancel It! My Ex Is Coming!
Emma stood by the stove as the rich scent of roasted meat and herbs filled the kitchen. It was one of those rare evenings when she had time to cook something more elaborate than eggs on toast. Wiping her brow, she turned and called out:
“Edward, do you remember my mother is visiting tomorrow?”
A moment later, he appeared in the doorway—his hair tousled, eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Your mother?” He blinked. “Did you mention this?”
“Yes, days ago!” Emma frowned. “We agreed she’d come on Sunday.”
Suddenly, Edward grew restless. “You’ll have to call her off. She can’t come tomorrow. Not possible.”
“And why’s that?” Emma crossed her arms.
“Because… Daphne’s arriving.”
“Daphne? Who’s Daphne?”
“Well… my ex,” he admitted with a sigh.
A dreadful silence fell over the room, broken only by Emma’s coughing—she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream.
“You’re joking, aren’t you? You want your ex staying here—on the very day my mother visits?”
“No, no! She won’t be staying, just sleeping over! She’s had a row with her chap and has nowhere else to go. Just a couple of nights, I swear. We’ve been over for ages—you know that! She’s just… in a spot of trouble.”
“And do you not see how this looks? My mother walks in to find your ‘old friend’ lounging about. Perfect first impression!”
“We’ll say she’s your friend. You’re a brilliant actress—she’ll believe you!”
Emma rolled her eyes, though a small part of her couldn’t help imagining Daphne sweeping in and calling her “the lady of the house” right off the bat. It was absurd—but intriguing.
That evening, the doorbell rang. There stood Daphne—tall, poised, with a sharp bob and a designer handbag slung over her shoulder. Her gaze flickered over Emma, sizing her up.
“So, you’re the wife? Right. Well, don’t fret—I’m only here a night or two. I shan’t be stealing your husband.”
Emma bit back a retort, muttering instead, “Room on the right. My mother’s coming tomorrow—try not to linger in her way.”
Daphne stepped inside, while Emma returned to the kitchen, where their supper was cooling.
“Daphne, will you join us for dinner?”
“Of course! Is that a pie? Don’t tell me you baked it yourself. Shop-bought pastry and jam, isn’t it?”
“You’re welcome not to eat any,” Emma clipped, though the edge of her mouth twitched.
Unfazed, Daphne offered, “Want me to show you proper baking? My grandmother was a chef—I’ve been at the stove since I was knee-high.”
And so began an evening neither would forget. By nightfall, the two were chatting like old schoolmates, swapping tales of men, recipes, even fashion. For the first time, Emma felt like more than just “the wife”—she was a woman who could hold her own. Daphne, it turned out, wasn’t a rival, but an ally.
Come morning, Daphne left for work just as Emma’s mother, Margaret, knocked at the door. The scent of freshly roasted beef stopped her in her tracks.
“You made this yourself?” Her mother’s eyes widened. “I’m impressed.”
Emma nodded, barely hiding her pride. She knew exactly who to thank—that blasted “ex.”
Later, Daphne rang. “Emma, I’m home tonight. Made up with Benedict. Thanks for the dress advice—and the pep talk. He was gobsmacked when he saw me at the dinner. Said he’s taking me to all his business meetings from now on. We even signed the contract, by the way. You’re brilliant. I’ll pop round tomorrow for my things—and give you a proper hug, like mates do!”
Hanging up, Emma turned to Edward.
“You were right. She’s actually lovely. And maybe… I’ve remembered who I am. Not just a wife. A proper hostess. A woman who’s got something to offer.”
“Well, if you’re friends with Daphne now, the world’s gone mad!” Edward threw up his hands.
“Just don’t meddle,” Emma smiled, “and all will be well.”
