**A Fiery Surprise: How Harry Nearly Burned Down the House for Mother’s Day**
The chaos hit me before I even stepped through the door. Smoke curled up the stairwell, soapy water trickled down the steps, and the air was thick with tension—like the house itself was whispering, *Turn back. Walk away.* But Martha wasn’t the sort to retreat. A steel-nerved CEO of a thriving firm, she’d faced worse.
She kicked off her heels, dumped the bouquet from the office gala on the side table, and shoved her feet into slippers—though, given the flooding, wellies might’ve been wiser. Inside, something growled, hissed, and smoked. And in the corner, the cat yowled like a banshee.
“Harry?! What in God’s name is happening?!” she barked, wading through steam and the stench of charred grease.
My husband emerged from the wreckage. Barefoot, in his boxers, face smudged with soot, a shiner under one eye, and a towel wrapped around his head like some desert nomad. He looked less like a man preparing a celebration and more like a soldier who’d gone toe-to-toe with a flamethrower.
“Darling… I thought you’d be later,” he stammered. “The corporate do—you’re usually the last to leave…”
Martha sank onto the footstool, rubbed her temples, and said flatly, “Report. Everything. Skip the ‘love of my life’ rubbish. I panicked when loan sharks came knocking in the nineties. I panicked when the business nearly folded. I don’t panic now. So—what did you do?”
Harry swallowed.
“I wanted a surprise. For Mother’s Day. You deserve it. Thought I’d clean up, do the laundry, roast a joint of beef, mop the floors—”
“Beef?” she cut in.
“Not the beef. The washing machine. It leaked. Well, not at first. I put the beef in the oven, then ran to the loo, then the machine. And then—the cat.”
“The cat’s alive?”
“Of course!” Harry looked offended. “Just a bit damp. And… frazzled. I swear, when I started the wash, he wasn’t in there. He must’ve… slipped in.”
“Slipped into a *closed* washing machine?!”
“More like… oozed.”
Martha buried her face in her hands. “Fine. Keep going. But show me the cat first. I need proof he survived.”
“Uh… He’s in the lounge. Tied up. For his own good. And to dry off.”
“All paws intact?”
“All four. Just… immobilized. Temporarily.”
“Go on.”
“Right. So, I’m doing the laundry, smell burning. Open the oven—the beef’s charcoal. Tossed oil on it—flames shot up. Singed my eyebrows. Then the cat screams. I bolt to the machine—won’t open. Cat’s behind the glass, eyes like Satan’s, howling! Me—stuck between hell in the oven and hell in the washer. Grabbed a crowbar. Smashed it. Cat rockets out, and—well.”
“Christ,” Martha muttered.
“He took out two vases, ruined the rug, shredded the curtains, clawed the wallpaper, smashed the champagne. The neighbours threatened to call the police *and* an exorcist. I caught him. Tied him up. Drying him. And all this—for your surprise, love.”
Martha marched into the lounge. A weaker woman might’ve fainted. The cat—tethered to the radiator, face swaddled in a scarf, smoke hanging in the air, puddles, broken glass. A war zone. Harry trailed after her, babbling:
“He wouldn’t sit still! I was worried he’d catch cold. And the noise—had to muffle him. But he’s fine!”
She freed the cat, toweled him dry with Harry’s headcloth, and cuddled him.
“You idiot, Harry. He could’ve suffocated. Though after the washer, I doubt anything scares him now.”
Settling on the sofa with the cat, she eyed her husband. “Well?”
“‘Well’ what?” he mumbled. “Should I hang myself now or later?”
“Wish me happy Mother’s Day, you plank.”
Harry brightened, dashed off, and returned solemnly, dropping to one knee.
“Martha, my sunshine. Thirty years with you, and I’m still in awe. You’re brilliant, gorgeous, patient, and loved. Happy Mother’s Day!”
He offered a ring box and a crumpled, claw-marked bouquet.
“Flowers were nice… till the cat… you know.”
Martha sighed, sniffed the roses. “They even smell like flowers. Miracle of miracles—not smoke. Harry, no more experiments. Just flowers. Just a hug. Just don’t burn the house down. Deal?”
“I only wanted it to be special. At work, they give you masterpieces. I wanted… heart. And a bit of spark.”
“You got spark,” she laughed. “And heart. And nearly the fire brigade. Come on. Damage control. Apologies to the neighbours. Before they *do* call a witch. Though she’s probably got a Harry of her own. Heaven knows what *he’s* set alight.”
The cat yawned, curled his tail around Martha’s leg, and—with a pointed flick of his ears—huffed at Harry.
Mission accomplished. A day to remember. *Forever.*
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes, the simplest gestures burn brightest—just not literally.
