A Fiery Surprise: How Harry Nearly Burned the House Down for Mother’s Day
The chaos hit Emily before she even stepped through the front door. The hallway reeked of smoke, soapy water trickled down the stairs, and the air was thick with tension—as if the walls themselves were whispering, “Turn back… better walk away.” But Emily, a hardened CEO of a thriving company, wasn’t one to retreat.
She flung open the door, tossed her bouquet from the office gala onto the console, and kicked off her heels like shedding the weight of the day. Slipping into her house shoes, she paused—given the flooded floor, wellies might’ve been wiser. Inside, the flat was a symphony of gurgling, banging, and hissing steam, punctuated by the anguished yowls of the cat.
“Harry?! What in heaven’s name is going on?!” she bellowed, wading through the haze of burnt grease.
Her husband emerged from the depths of the house—barefoot, in his pants, face smeared with soot and bruises, a tea towel wrapped around his head like a makeshift turban. He looked less like a man preparing for a celebration and more like a soldier who’d tangled with a flamethrower.
“Love… thought you’d be later,” he stammered. “The work do, you’re usually the last to leave…”
Emily didn’t blink. She sank onto the ottoman, pressed her fingers to her temples, and said flatly, “Report. All of it. Skip the pet names. I panicked when the ’90s recession nearly tanked the business. I don’t do panic anymore. Now—what have you done?”
Harry gulped.
“Wanted to surprise you. For Mother’s Day. You deserve it—figured I’d tidy up, do the laundry, roast a joint of beef, scrub the floors…”
“Beef?” Emily deadpanned.
“Not the beef. The washing machine. It leaked. Not right away, though! I put the beef in the oven first, then nipped to the loo, then the washer. And then—the cat.”
“Is he alive?”
“’Course he is!” Harry huffed. “Just a bit damp. And… agitated. Swear on me mum, he wasn’t in there when I started it. Must’ve… infiltrated.”
“Infiltrated a LOCKED machine?!”
“Well, seeped in, maybe…”
Emily buried her face in her hands. “Right. Carry on. But show me the cat first. Need proof he’s intact.”
“Er… He’s in the lounge. Tethered. For his own good. And to dry off.”
“All limbs accounted for?”
“Four legs, yes. Just… immobilized. Temporarily.”
“And then?”
“Went to check the laundry, smelled burning. Opened the oven—beef was charcoal. Tried to salvage it with oil—flames shot up. Lost me eyebrows. Cat started screeching. Dashed to the washer, but the door wouldn’t budge. Cat’s face pressed to the glass, eyes like a demon’s. So I grabbed a crowbar. Smashed it. Cat bolted out, and… well.”
“Christ,” Emily muttered.
“He took out two vases, ruined the rug, shredded the curtains, clawed the wallpaper, knocked over the bubbly, and the neighbors threatened to call the police—and an exorcist. I tied him up. To dry. Was trying to make it nice for you, love…”
Emily marched to the lounge. The scene would’ve given a fainter woman a heart attack, but she’d weathered worse. The cat—tethered to the radiator, muzzle wrapped in a scarf, smoke hanging in the air, puddles, shattered glass. Like a warzone. Harry fluttered behind her, rambling:
“He wouldn’t sit still! Needed to dry! And the noise—had to muffle him. But he’s fine!”
Emily freed the cat, toweled him dry with Harry’s discarded tea towel, and cradled him.
“You’re a menace, Harry. He could’ve suffocated. Though after the washer, he’s probably fearless now.”
Perching on the sofa with the cat, she eyed her husband. “Well?”
“Well what?” Harry wilted. “Should I jump off the roof now or after tea?”
“Congratulate me, you berk. It’s Mother’s Day.”
Harry jolted, dashed out, and returned with theatrical gravitas, kneeling before her.
“Emily, me sunshine. Thirty years with you, and I’m still in awe. You’re brilliant, gorgeous, patient, and loved. Happy Mother’s Day!”
He presented a ring box and a battered bouquet.
“Flowers were proper… till the cat… you know.”
Emily sighed, sniffed the roses. “They even smell like roses. Miraculously—not smoke. Harry, no more grand gestures. Just flowers. Just a hug. Just don’t torch the house. Deal?”
“Wanted it to be special. You get fancy gifts at work. I wanted… heartfelt. Homemade. With a spark. Literally.”
“Mission accomplished,” Emily chuckled. “Heartfelt, sparky, and nearly a fire hazard. Come on. Damage control. Apologize to the neighbors before they ring the vicar for an exorcism. Though she might have her own Harry. Heaven knows what chaos he’s cooked up.”
The cat yawned, tail curling around Emily’s leg, and pointedly scoffed at Harry.
A celebration to remember. For life’s little disasters—and the love that survives them.
