Mum’s coming? Cancel that! We’ve got my ex staying over!
Emma was at the stove when the rich aroma of roasted meat and herbs filled the kitchen. It was one of those rare evenings when she had time to cook something more elaborate than scrambled eggs. Wiping her brow, she turned and called out:
— Oliver, you remember my mum’s coming tomorrow, right?
A few seconds later, he appeared in the doorway—dishevelled, eyes still heavy with sleep.
— What mum? — Oliver blinked. — Did you mention something?
— Yes! Days ago! — Emma frowned. — We agreed she’d visit on Sunday.
Oliver suddenly looked uneasy and blurted out:
— Call it off. She can’t come tomorrow. No way.
— And why not? — Emma’s guard went up.
— Because… Sophie’s coming.
— Who the hell is Sophie?
— Well… my ex, — he admitted.
A deathly silence settled over the room. Then it shattered with Emma’s disbelieving cough—unsure whether to laugh or scream.
— You’re serious? You want your ex staying here tomorrow, the same day my mum arrives?
— You’re not getting it! She’s not moving in, just crashing for a night! She had a row with her boyfriend, nowhere else to go. Just a couple of days, honest. We’re ancient history, you know that! Sophie’s just in a tight spot!
— And you don’t think how this looks? Mum walks in, and your blast-from-the-past “friend” is lounging about. Brilliant first impression!
— We’ll say she’s your mate. You’re a natural actress—they’ll buy it!
Emma rolled her eyes, but deep down, she could already picture Sophie showing up and calling her “the wife” right at the door. It was revolting… but oddly intriguing.
That evening, the doorbell rang. On the step stood Sophie—tall, poised, with a fresh haircut and a designer handbag. She gave Emma a once-over.
— Ah, so you’re the missus? Got it… Don’t worry, I’m just here a night or two. Won’t lay a finger on your man.
Emma bit back a retort, only muttering:
— Room on the right. My mum’s coming tomorrow—try not to linger.
Sophie breezed in while Emma returned to the kitchen, where the food was cooling.
— Sophie, joining us for dinner?
— Absolutely! Did you make that pie? Don’t tell me—shop-bought pastry and jam, right?
— You can skip it then, — Emma cut in, though her lips twitched with the ghost of a smirk.
Sophie, unfazed, suddenly offered:
— Want me to teach you real baking? My nan was a chef—grew up in the kitchen.
And so began an evening neither would forget. By nightfall, they were chatting like old friends, swapping stories about men, recipes, even fashion. For the first time, Emma felt more than just “the wife”—she felt like a woman who could hold her own. Sophie wasn’t the enemy. She was an ally.
The next morning, Sophie left for work, and shortly after, Emma’s mum—Margaret—knocked at the door. The scent of freshly roasted beef hit her instantly.
— You made this yourself? — Mum’s eyes widened. — Didn’t know you had it in you…
Emma just nodded, pride bubbling under the surface. She knew exactly who to thank—that so-called “ex.”
That evening, Sophie called:
— Emma, staying at mine tonight. Made up with Daniel. Cheers for the dress and the pep talk. He was stunned seeing me at the function—said he’s taking me to all his work dos now. Oh, and we closed the deal. You’re a gem. I’ll pop by tomorrow for my things—and give you a proper hug!
Emma hung up and glanced at Oliver:
— You were right about her. She’s good people. And maybe… I finally see who I am. Not just a wife. A proper host. A woman with something to give.
— If you’re friends with Sophie now, I give up! — Oliver threw his hands up.
— Just stay out of the way, — Emma smiled, — and we’ll be fine.
