The key clicked in the lock, and Emily, careful not to make noise, slipped into the flat. The hallway was dark, save for a sliver of light creeping from the kitchen. Her parents were still awake, though it was well past midnight. Lately, this had become routine—their hushed late-night conversations behind closed doors, sometimes rising to muffled arguments.
Emily kicked off her heels, set her laptop bag on the side table, and tiptoed down the corridor to her room. She wasn’t in the mood to explain why she was late, though her reason was valid—a work project refused to come together, and deadlines loomed.
Through the wall, she caught fragments of their voices.
“No, James, I can’t keep doing this,” Mum said quietly, but irritation sharpened her tone. “You promised last month.”
“Claire, listen—now isn’t the time,” Dad replied, sounding defensive.
Emily sighed. Lately, her parents were always debating *something*, yet around her, they pretended everything was fine. Sure, they were in their fifties, and she was long grown, but it still stung to realise something was off between them.
She changed, washed up, and climbed under the duvet, but sleep wouldn’t come. Her thoughts spun in circles. Her brother, Oliver, lived in another city and rarely visited. If they divorced—who would stay with whom? Who’d get the flat? Why were they hiding this?
The murmurs continued. Emily groped for her headphones on the bedside table—anything to drown out their secrets. Her hand knocked her phone onto the carpet. Picking it up, she accidentally opened the voice recorder. Her finger hovered over the screen.
What if… she recorded them? Just to *know*, rather than guess. If she asked outright, they’d deflect, insist everything was fine.
Guilt prickled cold down her spine. Eavesdropping was wrong. *Recording* them? Worse. But this was her family. Didn’t she deserve the truth?
Before she could reconsider, she hit record, placed the phone nearer the wall, and pulled the duvet over her head.
The next morning, both parents looked exhausted over breakfast, exchanging only polite words.
“You were late last night,” Mum remarked, pouring tea. “Work again?”
“Yeah, finishing the project,” Emily nodded. “Why were *you* up?”
“Oh, just a film,” Mum waved her off, avoiding eye contact.
Dad buried himself in the newspaper. “Don’t wait up tonight,” he said without looking up. “Client meetings—might run late.”
Mum pressed her lips together but said nothing.
The commute to the office was agony. Emily fought the urge to listen to the recording immediately—too public, too shameful. She’d wait till evening.
Home at last, she found a note: Mum had gone to a friend’s. Dad, as predicted, was still at work. Perfect.
Curled on the sofa with a blanket, she hit play.
At first, only fragments were audible, then the voices clarified.
“—tell Emily?” Dad sounded anxious.
“I don’t know,” Mum sighed. “What if she doesn’t understand? After all this time.”
“But she *should* know.”
“Of course, but how do we explain keeping it secret?”
Emily froze. *What* secret?
“Remember how it started?” Dad asked, a smile in his voice.
“How could I forget?” Mum chuckled. “I thought it’d be temporary. Turns out—it’s for life.”
“What a life, though,” Dad grunted. “Even the hard bits.”
“Especially when Emily came along.”
Her chest tightened. *Especially?* Was she unwanted? Or—
“But we managed,” Dad said. “And she’s brilliant.”
“She is,” Mum agreed, pride softening her voice, and Emily exhaled. “But now we must decide. I’m tired of the double life, James.”
*Double life?* Emily’s blood ran cold. Was someone having an affair? The nausea surged.
“Claire, let’s wait for Oliver. We’ll talk as a family.”
“Fine,” Mum conceded. “But after that—no more delays. Either we change everything, or… I don’t know.”
The recording cut off—perhaps they’d left, or the phone had stopped.
Emily sat stunned. What *was* this? Why wait for Oliver? Why involve him?
Too many questions. Record them again? No—too invasive. Better to call Oliver. Or Aunt Grace, Mum’s sister—she was always honest.
She’d ring Oliver tomorrow.
Her brother didn’t answer all day, finally calling back that evening.
“Em! Sorry, left my phone in the van,” he said, brisk as ever.
“Ollie, when are you visiting?” she blurted.
“Planning to this weekend. Why?”
“Parents are acting odd. Whispering, pretending. Something about a ‘double life’.”
A pause.
“Oliver?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” he cleared his throat. “Look, don’t sweat it. Parents have secrets. If they’re not talking, they’re not ready. Wait till Saturday, yeah?”
“Fine,” she muttered. “Should I visit Aunt Grace?”
“Don’t,” he said too quickly. “Keep it between us.”
His evasion spiked her dread. He *knew*. Was it affairs? A scandal?
That evening, Mum returned from her friend’s oddly buoyant, cheeks flushed.
“Guess what? Sophie’s selling her flat!” she announced. “Moving to the countryside. Says she’s sick of the city.”
Emily blinked. “Would *you* want that?”
Mum hesitated. “Sometimes, yes. Quiet, fresh air, a garden.”
“And Dad?”
“Ask him.” Mum stiffened. “He’ll be late tonight.”
Dad returned earlier than expected. Emily was steeping tea when the front door clicked.
“Tea, Dad?”
“Please,” he called, loosening his tie as he entered. “What’s this about me moving to the country?”
Dad froze. “Who said that?”
“Ollie let it slip,” she lied, avoiding his eyes.
He rubbed his temples. “There *is* something to discuss. But let’s wait for Oliver.”
“Are you splitting up?”
“What? No!”
“You whisper, argue. Mum mentioned a ‘double life’.”
His face cycled through confusion, realisation, then—relief?
“Em, you’ve got it wrong. It’s the opposite. Just wait till Saturday.”
That night, Mum appeared at her door.
“Still up?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re fine,” Mum said cryptically. “Life just… surprises you, even at our age. You’ll understand soon.”
Saturday arrived. Oliver bounded in, tanned and loud, handing out gifts but tense-eyed.
“Family meeting?” he joked as they gathered post-lunch.
Mum and Dad exchanged a glance.
“We’re moving,” Dad announced.
“Where?” Emily’s throat tightened.
“To Willowbrook. A village three hours away.”
*”Why?”*
“Because it’s our real home,” Mum said simply.
The truth spilled: they’d bought a cottage fifteen years ago. Started as a weekend retreat, then expanded—vegetable plots, beehives, chickens.
“Bees?!” Emily gaped.
“Twenty hives,” Dad grinned. “Best honey you’ll taste.”
Oliver had known—he’d helped build sheds. But why hide it?
“You *hated* the countryside as a kid,” Mum admitted. “We didn’t know how to tell you.”
Emily’s cheeks burned. “I grew up!”
“And never asked where we went,” Dad added. “Then it felt too late to confess.”
“So this is your ‘double life’? Office workers by week, farmers by weekend?”
“Exactly,” Mum said. “And we’re happier there.”
They’d keep the flat for Emily or sell it—her choice.
She sat back, reeling. “You had a whole *farm*, and I never knew.”
“Come see it,” Dad urged. “Tomorrow.”
That night, anger warred with curiosity. How much had she missed, wrapped up in her own world?
The next morning, they piled into the car. As the city faded, her parents came alive, chattering about neighbours, Dad’s DIY shed, Mum’s jam-making.
Turning onto a country lane, Mum turned to her: “We wanted to tell you sooner. But we feared you’d laugh.”
“I wouldn’t have.”
“We see that now,” Mum squeezed her hand. “You deserved more trust.”
The car stopped at a gated property—a timber-framed house, gardens sprawling.
“Welcome to our real home,” Dad cut the engine. “Ready to meet our secret life?”
Emily stepped out. The air smelled of grass and blossoms. A cow lowed in the distance.
“I still can’t believe you hid this,” she said. “But… I like it.”
Mum hugged her. “There’s a room for you. Just in case.”
Emily smiled. “Show me those bees first. LetAs the bees hummed lazily around the hives and the sun dipped behind the apple trees, Emily realized that sometimes the biggest surprises weren’t secrets kept from you, but the joy of discovering them when the time was right.
