“My mum deserves to celebrate her milestone birthday at the cottage, and your penniless parents can clear off for the duration!” the husband declared.
The countryside house, with its sloping roof and carved window frames, stood among old apple trees. It had been passed down to Emily from her parents after her grandmothers passing. Her childhood had unfolded here, and every corner brimmed with memories. Now, Emily lived here with her husband, Simon, for the past three years.
An amber September dusk painted the sky as Emily arranged cups on the porch for evening tea. Through the open door drifted the voices of her parentsPeter Morgan was telling his wife, Margaret, how hed just picked the last tomatoes from the greenhouse.
“Margaret, well need to dig up the carrots tomorrow,” her father said, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Frost will be setting in soon.”
“Of course, Peter. Emily, love, could you give us a hand tomorrow?” her mother asked.
Emily nodded, pouring steaming tea into the cups. Her parents had arrived at the start of summer and had since thrown themselves into helping around the house. Her father fixed fences and tended the vegetable patch, while her mother made jams from the gardens blackcurrants and gooseberries. The house had settled into a comfortable rhythmthe creak of floorboards, the smell of fresh baking, quiet conversations over supper.
Simon appeared in the doorway, shaking raindrops from his jacket. He worked as an engineer in the city, commuting daily.
“Peter, hows that shed roof coming along?” he asked, sliding into a chair.
“Needs new boards, I reckon. The old ones have rotted right through,” Emilys father replied.
Simon sipped his tea in silence, nodding occasionally at his father-in-laws remarks. Emily noticed hed been distant lately, frowning for no reason. After her parents went to bed, hed linger in front of the telly, flipping channels without watching.
“Everything alright?” she asked one evening, sitting beside him on the sofa.
“Fine,” Simon muttered, eyes fixed on the screen.
Emily let it go. Men could be moody, especially in autumn. Probably just tired.
But a few days later, Simons behaviour shifted entirely. When her father offered to help repair the garage, Simon snapped a refusaluncharacteristically sharp. At dinner, he barely spoke. Margaret asked if he was feeling poorly, but Emily brushed it off.
That Saturday morning, while her parents were out foraging for mushrooms, Simon cornered her in the kitchen as she washed breakfast dishes.
“Emily, we need to talk.”
She dried her hands and turned. His expression was grim.
“Mums turning sixty soon. A big one. She wants to celebrate herefriends, family, the whole lot. You know how she loves hosting.”
Emily nodded. Her mother-in-law, Patricia, did adore entertaining. Every holiday saw her flat packed with guests and tables groaning under homemade feasts.
“And your suggestion is?”
Simon hesitated, then met her eyes.
“Your parents will need to make themselves scarce. Just for a week. Mum wants to rearrange things, decorate properly. There wont be space for everyone otherwise.”
Emily froze, the tea towel limp in her hands. His words landed like a verdict.
“*Scarce?* Where exactly are they meant to go? This is *my* house. Theyve every right to be here.”
“Its not forever! A few days, tops. They could stay with your aunt or book a B&B. Theyve got options.”
Emily hung the towel slowly, thoughts tangling.
“Simon, are you serious? Kick my parents out of their own home for a party? Theyve done nothing but help uswithout them, wed be drowning in chores!”
He stepped closer.
“Emily, *think*. Mums dreamed of this for years. Relatives are coming from all over. Its a once-in-a-lifetime thing. And your parents wouldnt a break do them good?”
“*My* parents?” Her voice hardened. “Peter and Margaret live here because they *belong* here. No ones evicting them for a birthday bash.”
Simons jaw twitchedhis telltale irritation sign.
“Youre not listening. Mums already booked caterers, a band. Its too late to cancel.”
“Then she can host it at hers or hire a function room,” Emily shot back, arms crossed.
Simons face reddened.
“Listen, Emily! Stop being stubborn! Mum *deserves* this. Your parents can find somewhere else for once!”
Emily gaped. Shed never heard such venom from him.
“Excuse me?”
“I said what I meant!” Simons voice rose. “Patricias worked her whole life, raised kids, never complained. Shes earned a proper celebration. And yours? What have they ever done? Scraping by on pensioner pennies, mooching off their daughter!”
Emilys cheeks burned as if slapped.
“Say that again.”
“My mum deserves her party at this cottage, and your skint parents can sod off for the week!” Simon spat.
A brittle silence fell. Emily stood rigid, hands trembling, but her voice stayed steady.
“My parents arent going anywhere. This is *their* home. If your mother needs a venue, shed better start looking elsewhere.”
Simon slammed a fist on the table. A cup shattered.
“Youre impossible! Mums planned everything! Guests, music, food! And youd wreck it over *principles*?”
“Principles?” Emily knelt to gather shards. “Its called *respect* for the people who gave me this houseand my life.”
“What about respect for *me*? For *my* mother?” Simon paced, wild-eyed. “Im your *husband*! Dont I get a say?”
Emily straightened, porcelain fragments in her palms.
“Ive always valued your opinion. But bullying my parents out? Thats not an opinionits cruelty.”
Simon stared, face twisted.
“You know what? Sort it yourself. Explain to Mum why her partys ruined!” He stormed out. “Im going to hers. At least *there* Im appreciated!”
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. His car screeched off the gravel.
Emily remained, clutching the broken pieces.
When her parents returnedher father carrying a basket of mushrooms, her mother clutching rowan branches for the vasethey found the drive empty.
“Wheres Simon?” Margaret asked.
“Gone to his mothers,” Emily replied flatly.
Peter studied his daughter. “Something happen, love?”
She nearly confessed, then stopped. Why upset them?
“Nothing major. Patricias birthdays coming upplans got a bit heated.”
Margaret nodded. “Milestones matter at that age. We ought to get her a gift.”
“Yes, Mum. We will.”
Alone in her room later, Emily hugged a pillow. Simons words echoed: *Skint parents can sod off.* How could he? After all her parents had donecooking, repairing, tending the garden while he worked late.
Peter had spent his life as a factory mechanic, honest and tireless. Margaret had been a nurse, working nights caring for others. Decent, humble people whod never burdened their daughter.
Now her husband called them moochers. Demanded they vanish from their own home.
Emily watched through the window as her father stacked firewood, her mother hung laundry. These were the people whod raised her, supported her, *loved* her. Not a burdena blessing. Without them, she and Simon wouldve buckled under the chores.
And now he wanted them gone. For a party thrown by a mother-in-law whod barely lifted a finger to help them.
Patricia, whod criticised Emilys cooking, tutted at dust, and now expected to commandeer her home.
Emily clenched her fists. *No.* The house was hers. Her childhood, her familys legacy. No one dictated terms here.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Simon:
*”Think about what I said. Mums devastated.”*
Emily deleted it. Nothing to think about.
At supper, her parents asked when Simon would return. She dodgedmaybe busy with Patricia. Peter nodded but clearly understood. Margaret fretted, suggesting they ring him.
“Dont. Hell call if he wants to.”
Later, Emily set the table on the porch. Her father sliced bread; her mother laid out homemade sausage. Pickled cucumbers from Margarets pantry, potatoes from their garden.
Simon didnt call.
“Love, maybe try to patch things up?” Peter ventured. “Dont lose a marriage over us.”
“Dad, if hed leave me for defending my parents, hes not much of a loss.”
Peter sighed but let it drop.
They spoke of tomorrows tasksharvesting the last apples, winter-proofing the roses, checking the roof before rains came.
“Apples first thing,” Peter said. “Before they drop.”
“Ill make jam,” Margaret added. “For winter.”
