Emma perched on the edge of the bed and sighed, eyeing the neat stack of banknotes on the table. For two years, she and little Alfie had scrimped and saved every last penny, squirrelling away pounds and pence for what had once seemed a pipe dream—a seaside holiday.
A cosy cottage by the shore, fresh fish for supper, the sound of waves, the whisper of the breeze—all of it felt like a hard-earned reward for years of work, sacrifices, and the rare little indulgences they allowed themselves.
“We’ve earned this,” Emma thought, staring at the money. She wanted to believe that, at last, life was about to cut them a break. This summer was supposed to be their long-awaited breather, a gulp of fresh air after endless daily grind.
Alfie bounded into the room, fiddling excitedly with a pair of headphones—his birthday present. Emma had splurged on them despite the savings, just to see his face light up.
“Mum, are you *sure* this is the place?” he asked, plonking himself onto a chair and fixing her with a serious look.
“Absolutely,” she said softly. “Quiet beach, barely any tourists, and a market nearby with fresh fruit. Imagine—just lying in the sun, listening to the waves, no rush, no fuss…”
Alfie grinned and nodded, but there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes. He knew how hard she worked, how often she went without, how every pound in that envelope had been wrestled from their tight budget. This holiday was their shared dream, tucked away like treasure.
Then her phone rang. *Daniel* flashed on the screen.
“Hello, sis!” her brother’s voice boomed. “What’s the plan for summer, then?”
Emma exhaled. Daniel had always been the self-appointed family commander, convinced he knew best—and never shy about reminding them.
“Taking Alfie to the coast,” she said carefully. “Just a little place by the sea, somewhere to unwind.”
“Why waste the money?” Daniel chuckled. “We’ve got the perfect holiday home right by the beach! Come stay with us. Fresh air, blackberries, peace and quiet. Think of the savings.”
Emma hesitated. Daniel always acted like life came with an instruction manual only he could read. But Alfie’s eyes lit up at the thought of a proper seaside house.
“Mum, it’s a *whole house* by the sea!” he pleaded. “Let’s go to Uncle Dan’s! We can save our money for later.”
Emma bit her lip but nodded. “Alright,” she relented. “We’ll come.”
Daniel met them at the station with a booming laugh and bear hugs. “Blimey, look at you two! Been ages!” He squeezed Emma tight. “Come on, we’ve got dinner waiting.”
His wife, Claire, stood nearby with their three-year-old, Lily, who waved madly. “Well, isn’t this lovely!” Claire trilled, pulling Emma into a perfume-clouded embrace.
The holiday home was charming—a wooden cottage with wicker chairs on the porch, a swing under an ancient apple tree, a hammock swaying in the breeze. The beach was just a fifteen-minute stroll down a flower-lined path. The first two days felt like a fairy tale—sunbathing, splashing in the cool waves, gorging on fresh scones and strawberries straight from the garden, listening to birdsong and the tide rolling in.
Emma watched Alfie race around with Lily, pluck apples, and feed ducks in the nearby pond. For the first time in years, she felt light.
Then, on day three, the illusion cracked.
“Em, you’re handy in the kitchen, right?” Daniel said over breakfast. “Fancy whipping up lunch? Claire’s knackered with Lily.”
Emma blinked but agreed. “Sure, no problem.”
That evening, as they lounged after dinner, he added, “Be a love and tackle the washing-up? We’re dead on our feet.”
Emma forced a smile. “Fine.”
Day four: Alfie was handed a basket. “Pop out and pick some raspberries, lad. Everyone loves a good pie.”
“But I wanted to go to the beach…” Alfie mumbled.
“Work first, play later,” Daniel said briskly.
The requests piled up. Emma mopped floors, babysat Lily while Claire shopped in town. Alfie weeded vegetable patches, hauled water from the well. What had started as “helping out” soon felt like indentured servitude. This wasn’t the carefree escape they’d imagined.
That night, Alfie slumped onto the porch, his hands scratched from gardening. “Mum,” he whispered, “why can’t we just… *not* do all this?”
Emma’s throat tightened. The unfairness of it—the way she and Alfie had become unpaid staff—sat like a stone in her chest.
“We’ll figure it out,” she lied softly.
But the next morning, she confronted Daniel. “We came here to relax. We’d like to actually *see* the sea.”
He frowned. “Emma, don’t be daft. There’s work to do. Who’ll mind Lily and the garden if you swan off? Speaking of—since you’re saving on accommodation, how about chipping in for new windows? You’ve got that holiday fund going spare now.”
Emma’s temper snapped. “That’s *our* money! We saved for *two years*!”
“And you’re eating my food, using my home,” he shot back. “Fair’s fair.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow.”
Daniel smirked. “Doubt it. I’ve already taken the cash from your purse. You can nip to the beach in the morning, but chores wait after. List’s on the fridge.”
Alfie stared, horrified. Emma’s hands shook with rage.
That night, under a cold moonbeam slicing through the window, she texted her ex, Tom.
*Need help. Daniel’s holding us hostage. Took our money.*
The reply was instant: *Be there at dawn.*
At sunrise, a familiar Land Rover growled up the drive. Tom stepped out.
“Where’s Daniel?” he demanded, striding inside.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Daniel sneered.
“Here for my son. We’re leaving.”
“*My* house, *my* rules.”
Tom flashed his police ID. “Try me.”
Daniel paled, threw the stolen cash on the table, and spat, “Piss off.”
They packed in frantic silence. Tom drove them to a little seaside inn.
“Ta, Tom. You saved us.”
“Next time, use your head,” he muttered. “I won’t always be this close.”
Two hours later, they stood on an empty beach. Waves crashed, wind tugged at their hair, and the sun blazed overhead.
“Mum,” Alfie whispered, “why’d Uncle Dan do that?”
Emma sank onto the warm sand, pulling him close. “Some folks don’t know the first thing about kindness—or fairness.”
“Let’s never go back.”
“Deal,” she said, finally feeling the weight lift.
Turns out, the old saying’s right: there’s no such thing as a free holiday. Not even with family. Especially not with family.
