That evening, my heart nearly leapt out of my chest, though I clenched my teeth to keep calm. I remember how it all started—just an ordinary phone call from my son: “Mum, Emma and I are coming over soon. To meet you.” His voice was cheerful, confident, like someone who’d finally made a big decision. My husband and I exchanged glances, thrilled—at last, our Jack was settling down, ready to marry. How long could a man stay a bachelor, after all?
Jack had always been strong-willed. Independent since childhood, he’d chosen his own path. After school, he joined the army, then suddenly declared, “I’m heading up north. For work. To earn some real money.” We were stunned but didn’t argue. He left—and true enough, he’d return home with treats: fresh salmon, venison, berries. He’d say how much he loved it there—the rugged beauty, the honest people.
And now, he was getting married. We set the table, laid out the good china, dressed in our best, and waited. A knock at the door. I went to answer—and nearly lost my voice.
There stood a woman. No, first I saw only an enormous reindeer-fur coat, and behind it—three children and Jack himself. The coat stepped inside, shrugged off—and out stepped a petite woman with thick black hair and sharp, bird-like eyes. Jack introduced her:
“This is Emma. My fiancée.”
My world tilted. The girl gave a silent nod while the children, without waiting for an invitation, plonked themselves on the floor. One tugged off his wellies; another clambered onto the windowsill. The youngest, Emma deftly tied to the sofa leg with a belt to keep him from darting off. Silence hung in the air, thick with smells—as if the entire Highlands had barged into our London flat.
We moved to the dining room. I spread out a white tablecloth, set the plates. Emma began scooping food onto the children’s plates—with her hands. She used a fork for herself, but stabbed at her meal like she was spearing fish. Her replies were short, clipped.
“Are these your children?” my husband asked, eyeing the trio on the floor.
“Mine,” she said flatly.
I glanced at Jack’s father. Was this our family now?
“Jack, love, where did you two meet?” I asked, my voice betraying me with a tremble.
“In the Highlands, Mum. She sings like an angel. You should hear her!” Jack said, beaming—like a stranger suddenly.
“And where will you live?” my husband cut in.
“A bothy’d do,” Jack shrugged.
Something in me snapped. I retreated to the kitchen, my husband following. We stared at each other, stunned.
“What do we do?”
“No idea,” he said, spreading his hands.
We returned to the room. My husband approached Jack and handed him some notes without meeting his eyes.
“Here’s for a hotel. Sorry, but you can’t stay here.”
Jack sighed.
“You always said, ‘Just get married, we’ll accept anyone.’ So I brought her.”
They left. With the children. The coat. The smell.
Forty minutes later, another knock. I opened the door—there they stood again. But this time, different. Emma, now in an ordinary jacket, her hair in a ponytail, eyes bright with mischief.
“Hello,” she said politely. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t understand,” I muttered, stepping back.
Jack grinned and stepped forward.
“Mum, you’ve been nagging me to settle down for years. But I’m not ready. Not yet. This is Emma, my mate. We thought we’d have a laugh. She’s from Inverness, visiting with her nieces and nephews. They had nowhere to stay, so I figured—why not stage a bit of a scene?”
I slumped onto the hallway stool, legs weak.
“Son, do as you please, but never scare us like that again. I nearly had a heart attack!” I breathed out.
We returned to the table. Emma, transformed, helped in the kitchen. The children sat properly, laughing. And my husband and I realised—yes, we’re getting old. But Jack’s prank? Bloody terrifying—and spot-on.
