“My mother deserves to celebrate her anniversary at the cottage, and your pitiful parents can just clear off for the occasion!” the husband declared.
The country house, with its sloping roof and carved eaves, stood among old apple trees. It had been passed down to Emily from her parents after her grandmothers death. Her childhood had unfolded within its walls, and every corner held memories. Now, Emily lived there with her husband, James, for three years.
An autumn evening painted the sky crimson. On the veranda, Emily set out teacups for supper. Through the open door drifted the voices of her parentsPeter Wilson was telling his wife how hed gathered the last of the tomatoes from the greenhouse.
“Margaret, we ought to dig up the carrots tomorrow,” her father said, wiping his hands on a towel. “The frost will be upon us soon.”
“Aye, Peter. Emily, might you help us tomorrow?” her mother asked, turning to her daughter.
Emily nodded as she poured steaming tea into the cups. Her parents had arrived at the start of summer and since then had helped with the chores. Her father mended the fence and tended the vegetable patch, while her mother made jam from the blackcurrants and gooseberries picked in the garden. The house had settled into a comforting rhythmfootsteps on wooden floors, the scent of fresh baking, quiet conversations over supper.
James appeared in the doorway, shaking raindrops from his coat. He worked as an engineer in the city, commuting daily by car.
“Peter, hows the shed roof coming along?” he asked, taking his seat at the table.
“Needs new timber, I reckon. The old boards have rotted clean through,” Emilys father replied.
James sipped his tea in silence, only nodding occasionally in response. Emily noticed hed grown distant lately, scowling without reason. After her parents retired for night, he often sat by the telly, flicking through channels.
“Is something the matter?” she asked one evening, settling beside him on the sofa.
“Nothings wrong,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the screen.
Emily didnt press. Men could be moody, especially in autumn. Perhaps he was just tired.
But within days, his temper sharpened. When her father offered to help repair the garage, James refused curtly, unlike himself. At supper, he barely spoke. Margaret asked if he was unwell, but Emily brushed it off.
That Saturday, while her parents foraged for mushrooms in the woods, James approached her in the kitchen as she washed breakfast dishes.
“Emily, we need to talk.”
She dried her hands and turned. His face was grim.
“Mums turning sixty soon. She wants to celebrate here, in the housefamily, friends, the lot. You know how she loves hosting.”
Emily nodded. Her mother-in-law adored entertaining. Every holiday saw the house packed, food prepared for days.
“What are you suggesting?”
James hesitated, then met her eyes.
“Your parents will have to leave. Just for the week. Mum wants to rearrange things, decorate her way. Guests will be staying overnight. There wont be room.”
Emily froze, the towel clutched in her hands. His words struck like a verdict.
“Leave? Where would they go? This is my house. Theyve every right to be here.”
“Not forever! A few days, thats all. They could visit your aunt or stay at a guesthouse. Theyve options.”
Slowly, she hung the towel. Her thoughts tangled.
“James, are you serious? Youd turn my parents out for a party? Theyve done more for this place than we have. Without them, wed never manage.”
He stood, stepping closer.
“Emily, think. Mums dreamed of this for years. Relatives are coming from all over. Its a once-in-a-lifetime affair. And your parentswhats a short holiday to them?”
“My parents?” Her voice hardened. “Peter and Margaret Wilson belong here. No ones evicting them for a celebration.”
James jaw twitcheda telltale sign of irritation.
“Youre not listening. Mums already booked caterers, musicians. Its too late to cancel.”
“Then let her host it at her flat or hire a hall.”
His face flushed. Fists clenched.
“Listen here, Emily! Mums earned this. Her whole lifes been work and sacrifice. And your parentswhat have they ever done but live off your charity?”
Emilys breath caught, cheeks burning as if struck.
“Say that again.”
“I said, my mother deserves her anniversary here, and your wretched parents can clear out!”
Silence rang through the kitchen, heavy and brittle. Emily stood motionless, hands trembling, yet her voice was steady.
“They stay. This is their home. If your mother wants a venue, shell find another.”
James slammed a fist on the table. A cup shattered.
“You dont understand! Its all arrangedguests, music, food! Youd ruin it over stubborn pride?”
“Pride?” She knelt, gathering shards. “Its called respect. For the people who gave me this home.”
“And what of my respect? My mothers?” He paced, gesturing wildly. “Im your husband! Doesnt my word count?”
She straightened, porcelain fragments in her palms.
“Ive always valued your thoughts. But tossing my parents out isnt a thoughtits cruelty.”
He stopped, glaring.
“Fine. Sort it yourself. Explain to Mum why her partys ruined!” He wheeled toward the door. “Im leaving. At least there, Im treated with respect!”
The slam rattled the windows. Tires crunched gravel as his car sped away. Emily remained, clutching the broken pieces.
When her parents returnedher father bearing mushrooms, her mother a sprig of rowanthey found her alone.
“Wheres James?” Margaret asked, glancing about.
“Gone to his mothers.”
Peter studied his daughter. “Something amiss, love?”
She nearly confessed, then stopped. Why distress them? Let them think it a simple visit.
“His mothers birthdays coming. Theyre planning the celebration.”
Margaret nodded. “At her age, milestones matter. We ought to prepare a gift.”
“Yes, Mum. Of course.”
Alone in her room, Emily replayed James words: *Wretched parents.* How could he speak so of people whod welcomed him, fed him, labored for this home?
Peter had worked decades as a factory mechanichonest, tireless. Margaret had nursed hospital patients through night shifts. Modest, decent folk. Never complaining, never burdening her.
Now her husband called them *wretched.* Demanded they vacate their own home.
She watched through the window as her father stacked firewood, her mother hung laundryordinary acts of an autumn day. These were the people whod raised her, schooled her, steadied her. Never a burden. Without them, she and James wouldve drowned in upkeep.
And now? Hed cast them out for his mothers galaa woman whod barely lifted a finger for them.
Helen Whittaker lived comfortably in her city flat, having worked as a haberdashery clerk. Sociable, fond of gatherings. Yet shed treated Emily with cool indifference, visiting seldom, critiquing the housekeeping, complaining of lumpy beds.
Now she demanded this house for her party. And James backed her.
Emily clenched her fists. Never. This home was hers, steeped in family history. No one dictated its use but her.
If Helen wanted grandeur, let her rent a hall. James earned well enough. But evicting her parents? Unthinkable.
Her phone buzzed. A message from James: *Think on what I said. Mums heartbroken.*
She deleted it. There was nothing to think.
At supper, her parents asked when James would return. Emily deflectedperhaps delayed by arrangements. Peter said nothing, but she saw he understood. Margaret fretted, suggesting they ring him.
“Dont. Hell call if needed.”
That night, as her parents retired earlycountry habitsEmily lingered, washing dishes, dreading tomorrow.
James would return, surely. With Helen in tow, applying pressure. The woman could be persuasive.
But Emily wouldnt bend. Principles outweighed peace. Her parents stayed.
Morning brought the growl of his car. Not aloneHelen emerged beside him, dressed for battle: navy dress, heeled shoes, immaculate coiffure.
“Emily, darling,” she began, mounting the steps. “James mentioned a little misunderstanding. Lets talk properly.”
Inside, Helen appraised the curtains, nodding approval.
“Lovely place. So cozy. Perfect for a gathering.”
Peter and Margaret sat at the table, nursing tea. They rose stiffly as guests entered.
“Helen, what brings you?” Peter asked, shaking her hand.
“Oh, Peter, dear, its the anniversary plans. Sixtys a milestone, you know.”
The Wilsons exchanged glances but held their tongues.
Helen leaned in. “Now, Emily, Ive thought
