**Diary Entry – A Visit That Changed Everything**
The guests arrived unexpectedly. Margaret frowned—she was overjoyed to see her son, but that *dragonfly* fluttering around him? Disgusting. The lad was completely smitten. Ugh.
*”Mum, hello! We’ve come to visit—me and Emily!”*
*”Oh, I can see that,”* Margaret said stiffly, hugging her son while forcing a smile.
*”Mum… we’ve got happy news!”*
*”What kind?”*
*”We’ve put in our notice—ta-da!”*
*”Goodness, already?”*
*”What do you mean ‘already’? Mum, don’t be daft. We’ve been together a year, and we’re getting married!”*
*”Well, what’s done is done. Make yourselves at home—I’ll pop to the shops, get something.”*
Margaret needed air. To be alone. How had it happened? Her little bear, Michael, had grown up, moved to London, built his own life… and now *this*.
*”Mum, what shops? We’ve brought everything—plenty of food.”*
She sat, exhausted, arms limp. She wanted to cry—to curl up on the bed like a child and sob. That *dragonfly*—her name for Michael’s fiancée—was unbearable. Flighty thing. Michael needed a steady girl, someone local.
Like Annabelle Whitmore. Now *there* was a proper girl—sensible, practical, trained as an accountant. Worked at the library. Sat with him in school. Why *not* her? They could’ve lived in London, visited home, brought grandchildren. The Whitmores were good people—proper, respectable. But no, he’d gone and found some city *flibbertigibbet* and pranced around like she was the Crown Jewels.
The youngsters unloaded groceries—fancy hams, cured meats, fresh-cut cheeses, fruits. Good Lord, she’d need to clear the fridge. Best save it for a *special occasion*.
She ought to cook something for tomorrow. Invite the neighbours, family… tradition demanded it. And where was *Geoffrey*? Lunchtime already—had he eaten at that blasted work canteen again?
*”Mum, we’re off to the river!”*
*”Go on, then.”*
Of *course* she fancied the river. The spoiled little madam. Without her, Michael might’ve helped his father in the garden. But no—now they were off gallivanting.
Margaret rushed about like a headless chicken, spreading word for the next day’s gathering. By evening, she was knackered. She lay down for five minutes—then bolted upright.
*”What on *earth* are you doing?”*
*”Mum, we’re setting up dinner—thought we’d help while you rested.”*
*”Dinner? With the *good* china? The bowls are in the cupboard, the glasses, the—Geoffrey! Why aren’t you saying anything?”*
*”What’s there to say? They’re right—that fancy stuff’s just gathering dust.”*
*”Have you lost your minds? The crystal glasses—the salad servers—*what is happening?*”*
*”Mum, *what’s* happening? We’re setting a *proper* table for a family dinner, and you’re crying over plates?”*
Margaret waved a hand and stormed off, catching a glimpse of that *dragonfly* hacking up the expensive meats. *So much for saving them.*
*”Mum, change your clothes—come join us!”* Michael called.
She returned—and nearly fainted. The *good* tablecloth. The crystal. The *china*—untouched for *decades*—now laid out. And *Geoffrey*—wearing his *wedding shirt*? Had they all gone mad?
*”Maggie, love—go change! It’s a celebration!”*
*”Whose *daughter*?”* she hissed.
*”Mum, come *on*.”* Michael took her hands, but she wrenched free, ranting about *her* house, *her* rules, the *audacity* of touching the good plates.
*”ENOUGH!”* Geoffrey slammed the table. *”What ‘special occasion’? When’s it coming, eh?”* He jabbed his throat. *”You think we’ve got forever?”*
*”We live like tramps—eating from chipped bowls, drinking from old mugs—while three full dinner sets sit unused! This is *our* house, Maggie. *Our* son. He’s got every right!”*
*”Now, Michael—fetch that rug from the attic. Moth-eaten or not, we’re using it!”*
*”And *you*—go put on that dress! The wardrobe’s bursting, yet you dress like a scarecrow!”*
Margaret stood there, gaping—then, suddenly, she turned. She wore her finest dress, gold earrings, stockings, heels. *Fine. If they wanted a spectacle—they’d get one.*
Auntie Louisa barged in. *”Lord above—Maggie’s dolled up like a bride! Michael with some *stranger*—who’s *dead*?”*
*”Oh, put a sock in it! Sit down—Michael’s here with his *future wife*!”* She nearly spat *dragonfly* but caught herself.
Louisa narrowed her eyes. *”You’re not lying? No one’s *kicked it*?”*
*”For heaven’s sake! Drink, eat—the kids brought *servelat*.”*
*”Well, I never…”*
*”You’ll dress fancy tomorrow,”* Geoffrey said. *”We’re celebrating.”*
*”What’s *tomorrow*? What’s *today* then?”*
*”Just dinner, Aunt Lou.”*
*”Hmph. Fancy folk.”*
Louisa stayed just long enough to scarf food, then *ran*—spreading word of the lunacy: Maggie and Geoffrey *dressed up*, eating off china, drinking from crystal. *Geoffrey in his wedding shirt! Maggie in velvet!*
By bedtime, Margaret’s mother arrived—saw the table set, the tea service out. *”What’s *this*? Have you lost your mind? That’s *mine*—put it back!”*
*”Out, Mother! This is *our* home. *Our* things.”*
*”Pissed, are you? Maggie—new nightgown? You’ve gone barmy!”*
*”Take the set and *never* darken my door again!”*
*”What?”*
*”You heard. At *your* house, you rule. Here? We’re living *properly*.”*
The next evening, the house *overflowed*. Neighbour after neighbour came—to gawk, to *judge*—then *copy*.
*”It *does* taste better from crystal!”* they marvelled.
Suddenly, women dug out good linens, buried china, *wore* their Sunday best. Even old ladies raided trunks—wearing moth-nibbled finery with pride.
*”Geoffrey… when *is* that ‘special occasion’?”* Margaret murmured that night. *”We wait and wait—dressing in rags, eating from cracked plates. Why?”*
*”Exactly, love. Why wait?”*
*”But… you *should* keep *something* nice spare, shouldn’t you?”*
*”Well… s’pose so.”*
***
*”To *hell* with it!”*
*”Louisa! Have you gone mad? Why’s the trunk open?”*
*”Because—starting *today*—we sleep on *proper* sheets! And that rug’s going *down*!”*
*”But—Mother made those valances!”*
*”Your mum’s been *dead* thirty years! We’re *done* waiting!”*
*”Wait—Louisa… these towels. Mother *made* these…”*
*”I *know*! And look—the rooster embroidery! I *stitched* these fifty years ago!”*
*”…They’re lovely, Lou.”*
*”Aren’t they?”*
