Spring sunshine filtered through the curtains, casting dappled shadows on the freshly painted walls of Emily’s living room. The scent of shepherd’s pie lingered in the air—her attempt to cheer James, who’d been especially brooding over his phone since their date last night. Emily stirred the gravy, keeping a careful eye on the clock.
“Emz, have you seen my cobalt tie? You know the one with the skulls?” James appeared in the doorway, still wrestling with his shirt buttons.
“Top drawer of the wardrobe—ironed last night,” she replied, not looking up.
Breakfast was a silent affair. James scrolled through his newsfeed, while Emily covertly assessed his distracted posture. She debated asking what was wrong but decided to wait. If it was bad enough, he’d spill the beans.
“I’ve, uh, got something to say,” James said suddenly, downing his last cup of tea. “Dad’s coming to stay. Today. For a while.”
Emily froze mid-sip. Colin Thompson? The same father-in-law who once caused a catering crisis at their wedding by declaring her “not the sort of woman one brings home to meet the family”? The man who hadn’t sent a single Christmas card in the last five years?
“Today? How long?” she managed.
“Couple of weeks. He said something’s gone sideways with his ex. Wanted to crash at ours until it sorts out.”
“You mean Mrs. Dashwood, the thirty-something yoga instructor who’s two inches shorter and practically glows in a spotlight?”
“She’s… not the problem, Em. He’s a bit better now. After his heart scare, he’s… mellowed. I couldn’t say no.”
“Next time, say no *before* I find out while microwaving my dinner,” she snapped, fetching plates from the cupboard.
The day stretched interminably. Emily made a half-hearted attempt to focus on work, but her thoughts kept leaping back to Colin. Retired RAF officer, arch definition of a grumpy codger—what if he refused to accept tea with milk? Or worse, what if he brought his pet parrot that screamed about the Queen?
By evening, the flat gleamed under a fresh coat of polish. Emily had even folded Colin’s old man-chest of clothes like origami. “Just like a proper English home,” she muttered, lit a candle, and rehearsed the word *peacefully* as if it were a mantra.
The doorbell rang at precisely 7 p.m.
James stood in the hallway, flanked by a shriveled duffel bag and a towering figure with silver hair and a no-nonsense mustache.
“Emily, this is Dad,” James said quickly, edging sideways like a child trying to hide a crushed spider.
“Lovely to meet you, Colin,” Emily said, gripping the doorframe as if it might anchor her.
“Emily,” Colin’s voice was lower, rougher than she’d imagined. “Apologies for just turning up. I thought it best if I brought my own dish—cold porridge. Nothing says family reunion like lactose overload.”
“Um. That’s, uh, considerate.”
Supper was a symphony of awkwardness. James regaled his father with stories of their recent IKEA disaster, while Colin noded at the right intervals. Emily sliced steak with surgical precision, occasionally glancing at Colin’s untouched tea.
“Your cooking’s improved,” Colin said, startling her. “Back in the day, my wife’s pies were all about the herb-heavy, rosemary-on-steroids vibe. Gigi? She’s more into toaster ovens and emojis. ‘It’s not a woman’s job, anyway,’ she says. Honestly, who *is_ this woman?”
Emily stared. James blinked.
“Just a name for the ex,” James muttered.
By the end of the week, Colin had set a precedent. He arrived at 5:30 a.m., brewing tea with such fervor it could clear a room. He organized the sock drawer by color, fixed the wobbly table leg using a hairpin, and once found Emily singing show tunes in the shower.
“You’ve got a good voice for a woman who’s never seen a West End musical,” he’d remarked, as if commenting on the weather.
Emily’s friend Sophie gave her the stink eye at their lunch date.
“He’s a *vegetarian*, of all things,” Emily said. “And he folds my laundry. This is not how the Colin Thompson I knew operated.”
“Are you sure it’s the same man who once called your knitting ‘a waste of wool and soul’?”
“I’m starting to think he’s adopted this new persona just to unnerve me.”
One evening, while James was out, Colin appeared in the kitchen with a hesitant expression.
“You made a lovely meal,” he said, using the apron as a handkerchief to wipe the counter.
“Thank you. It’s just… basic.”
“No, Emily. I mean it. You’ve given my son more than he ever deserved.”
She froze, the peeler slipping in her hand.
“It’s not just the tea or the socks,” he said, plucking a lettuce leaf from the sink. “It’s how you two laugh without needing to explain the joke. The honesty in it, if you catch my drift. I—Bloody hell, you’d think a man of my age wouldn’t have this many words.”
Emily stared at the potato between her fingers.
“Colin,” she said carefully, “what’s really going on?”
“Gigi,” he said flatly. “Turns out, she’s not quite the picture of marital bliss. Got a bit of a ‘how many grandchildren can he cough up?’ vibe going on. I pretended to pack to test the waters, and let’s just say… she was less than thrilled.”
“You *set the breakup in motion*,” Emily whispered, horrified.
“And now I plan to live in a quiet retirement home, far from any Gigs,” Colin said with a wry grin.
The final week passed in a blur of loose changed TV settings and Colin’s newfound obsession with composting. When Gigi herself stormed in mid-Thursday, flustered and clutching a handbag the size of a suitcase, Emily was ready.
“Where’s my husband?” Gigi demanded, stepping over Colin’s latest DIY project.
“Top drawer, probably,” Colin drawled, tossing a loose granite into the recycling.
By 2 p.m., Gigi had been served tea (milk, no sugar), shown the door, and left with a box of her belongings and a very ticking itinerary.
“She’s not coming back, is she?” James asked later, as they stacked the clean dishes in the dishwasher.
“Doubt it. Turns out, Colin’s been leaving a paper trail of authenticity for years. Gigi just hadn’t noticed.”
“Still,” James smirked, “the parrot bit her when she mentioned Brexit.”
Colin left a week later, dragging his duffel bag with the solemnity of a funeral. As he reached the door, he paused.
“Emily,” he said. “Thanks for not making the usual assumptions. And, um…”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to be, you know, part of your life. Even if it’s just for tea.”
Emily smiled. “You’re more than welcome to tea. And maybe a show tune or two.”
That night, as James poked his head into the nursery they’d just set up, the phone rang.
“Mum,” he said, pausing. “Wait—Dad?”
Emily took the phone, heart skipping.
“Colin?” she said.
“Heard the news. Congrats, lass,” he grunted. “Boy or girl?”
“We’re still figuring it out, but…”
“Good.’ll be there for the first word. And the first teeth. And the first internment in a psychiatric ward, assuming it’s anything like me.”
He hung up with the soft click of a man who’d finally found his rhythm.
Emily looked at James, who was grinning like a man who’d just realized his coffee was free for life.
“Turns out,” she said, leaning into his side, “some people just wait until you’ve almost given up before they start playing nice.”
Outside, the drizzle thickened into a proper spring shower. Inside, the teakettle hissed, a quiet promise that even the messiest chapters could turn into something worth keeping.
