That evening, my heart nearly leaped out of my chest. I remember how it all started—just an ordinary phone call from my son: “Mum, Emma and I are coming over to meet you.” His voice was cheerful, confident, like someone who’d finally made a bold decision. My husband and I exchanged glances and smiled—our Jack was settling down at last! How long had we waited for him to stop being a bachelor?
Jack had always been independent, even as a boy. After school, he joined the army, then suddenly announced, “I’m off to the Highlands. To work. Earn some money.” We were stunned but didn’t argue. He left, and true to his word, he’d return home with treats—fresh salmon, venison, wild berries. He said he loved it there—the rugged beauty, the honest folk.
Now, marriage was on the cards. We laid the table, set out bread and salt, dressed in our best, and waited. The doorbell rang. I answered—and nearly lost my voice.
A woman stood there. At first, all I saw was an enormous sheepskin coat, and behind her, three children and Jack himself. The coat stepped inside, shrugged off—and out stepped a petite, dark-haired girl with sharp, bird-like eyes. Jack introduced her:
“This is Megan. My fiancée.”
My heart sank. The girl nodded silently while the children, without waiting for an invitation, flopped onto the floor. One tugged off his wellies while another clambered onto the windowsill. The youngest, Megan swiftly tethered to the sofa leg with a scarf to keep him from wandering. The air filled with the scent of peat and woodsmoke, as if the Highlands had barged into our little London flat.
We moved to the lounge. I’d laid out a white tablecloth, set the dinner. But Megan—with her hands!—piled food onto the children’s plates. She used a fork for herself, but twirled it in her mouth like a lollipop. Her words were clipped.
“Are these your children?” my husband asked, eyeing the trio on the floor.
“Mine,” she replied flatly.
I exchanged glances with Jack’s father. Was this our family now?
“Jack, love, where did you two meet?” My voice trembled.
“In the Highlands, Mum. Her singing—you should hear it!” Jack beamed, suddenly a stranger to me.
“Where will you live?” my husband cut in.
“A cottage would do,” Jack shrugged.
Something in me snapped. I stepped into the kitchen, my husband following. We stared at each other, wide-eyed.
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know,” he muttered.
We returned. Without meeting Jack’s eyes, my husband pressed a wad of banknotes into his hand.
“Here’s for a hotel. I’m sorry, but you can’t stay.”
Jack sighed.
“You always said you’d accept anyone if I married. Well, here she is.”
They left. With the kids. The coat. The smell.
Forty minutes later—another ring. I opened the door. There they stood again, but different. Megan, now in a simple jumper, hair tied back, eyes bright and laughing.
“Hello,” she said politely. “We’re sorry.”
“I don’t understand,” I mumbled, stepping aside.
Jack grinned and stepped forward.
“Mum, you’ve always nagged me to marry. But I don’t want to—not yet. This is Megan, my mate. We were having a laugh. She’s from Inverness, visiting with her nieces and nephews. They had nowhere to stay. Thought we’d put on a show.”
I sank onto the hallway stool, legs weak.
“Son, do as you please—but never scare me like that again! I nearly had a heart attack!”
We returned to the table. Megan, now cheerful, helped in the kitchen. The children sat properly, laughing. My husband and I realised—we’re getting old. But Jack’s joke hit home. Terrifyingly real.
