The guests arrived unexpectedly, and Margaret frowned. She was thrilled to see her son, but that dragonfly fluttering around Mikey—ugh, the fool was smitten.
“Mum, hello! We came to visit—me and Emily,” he said cheerfully.
“I can see that,” Margaret replied, hugging him with a tight-lipped smile.
“Mum… we’ve got happy news!”
“What kind?”
“We’ve put in the application—ta-daa!”
“Oh, isn’t that a bit soon?”
“Soon? Mum, what? We’ve been together a year. We’re getting married!”
“Well, if you’ve already done it, then fine. Make yourselves at home. I’ll run to the shop, get something for dinner.”
Margaret needed air, a moment alone. How had her little Mikey grown up? Gone off to London, living his own life, working—now marrying *her* of all people.
“Mum, forget the shop! We brought loads, enough food for days.”
Margaret sank into a chair, exhaustion weighing her down. She wanted to cry, to curl up in bed like a child. That *dragonfly*—that’s what she called Mikey’s fiancée—just rubbed her the wrong way. Too flighty, too loud. Mikey needed a steady girl, someone local.
Like Annabel Whitcombe—now there was a proper girl. Quiet, practical, trained as an accountant, worked at the library. They’d even sat together at school! Why not marry someone like that? They could’ve lived in the city but visited home, brought grandchildren. The Whitcombes were decent folk, salt of the earth. But no—he’d gone and picked this London butterfly, parading her around like some prize.
The young couple unpacked the food—posh hams, cheeses, fruits—everything fancy. Margaret mechanically cleared space in the fridge. “I’ll need to cook tomorrow, invite the neighbours and family. Tradition, I suppose. Though who knows if there’ll even be a wedding?”
She frowned. “Where’s John gone? Lunchtime, and he’s off at the pub again?” She sighed. “Right, best start prepping.”
“Mum, we’re off to the river!”
“Fine, go then.”
Margaret seethed. Of course *she* wanted to go to the river. If Mikey had come alone, he’d have helped in the garden, given his dad a hand. But no—now he was off gallivanting with *her*.
The day blurred past—endless cooking, ringing round relatives. By evening, Margaret collapsed onto the sofa, just for five minutes… only to wake to chaos.
“What on earth are you doing?” she shrieked.
“Mum, we’re setting dinner—thought we’d help while you rested.”
“Dinner? With the *good* china? The crystal glasses?” She turned on John. “And you—not a word?”
“What’s there to say? They’re using what’s been gathering dust!”
“Have you lost your minds? The crystal! The serving bowls! Oh, this is a nightmare—”
“Mum, what’s *actually* wrong? We’re having a nice family meal, and you’re crying over plates?”
Margaret waved them off and stormed to her room, catching a glimpse of *that girl* slicing the fancy meats. All saved for a special occasion—wasted now.
“Mum, come join us!” Mikey called later.
She stepped out—good lord, the *good* tablecloth, the crystal flutes. John, of all people, had dressed up—his best shirt, pressed trousers. Had the world gone mad?
“Margaret, love, put something nice on—it’s a celebration!”
“Celebration of *what*?” she hissed.
Mikey took her hands, but she wrenched free, ranting about *her* house, *her* rules, the disrespect of using the good things without permission.
John slammed his fist on the table. “Enough! What’s this ‘special occasion’ you’re always waiting for?” He jabbed his throat. “It’s *here*, Margaret. Right now.”
“We live like paupers—eating from chipped bowls, drinking from old mugs, while three full sets of china sit untouched! This is *our* home—yours, mine, Mikey’s. He’s got every right to use what’s here!”
Margaret gaped. Then, wordlessly, she marched off—and returned in her best dress, gold earrings, stockings, heels.
Aunt Louisa dropped by, gawking. “Margaret Whitaker, dressed to the nines? Everyone’s alive? What’s going on?”
“Shove off, Louisa. Sit down—Mikey’s here with his… future wife.”
“You’re not fooling me,” the old woman muttered but took a seat.
By bedtime, the village buzzed. The Whitakers had cracked open the good china, drunk from crystal—*unheard of*!
The next evening, neighbours crammed into the house, marveling at the spectacle.
“Whisky tastes different in crystal, doesn’t it, Lucy?” John teased.
“Don’t you dare—”
“Oh, we *dare*,” Lucy laughed.
A quiet revolution swept the village. Wives aired out linen, laid proper tables. Even the elderly dug into trunks, wearing things “before the moths got them.”
Later, Margaret mused, “But John… shouldn’t we keep *some* things for that special day?”
He chuckled. “When’s it coming, love? We’ve waited long enough.”
In the end, even Aunt Louisa emptied her chests. “Enough living like we’re waiting to die. We’ll sleep on proper sheets, use the good towels.”
Her husband balked. “But those were your mother’s—”
“Gone thirty years! Move over, Michael—unless you want to join her!”
He sighed, then helped shake out the dust.
“Louisa… these pillowcases. Your mother embroidered the pheasants.”
“I *know*. I stabbed my fingers bloody doing it. Lovely, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” he said softly. “It is.”
**The lesson? Life’s too short for “saving for best.” The special occasion is now.**
