That evening, my heart would have leaped out of my chest if not for my clenched teeth. I remember how it all began—just an ordinary phone call from my son: “Mum, Emily and I are coming over now. To meet you.” His voice was cheerful, confident, like someone who’d finally taken a serious step. My husband and I exchanged glances, relieved: at last—our Peter had settled down, ready to marry. How long could he stay a bachelor?
Peter’s always been a handful. Independent from childhood, but stubborn. After school, he joined the army, then suddenly announced, “I’m off to the Highlands. To work. Earn some proper money.” We were stunned but didn’t argue. He left—and true enough, started coming home with treats: fresh salmon, venison, wild berries. Said he loved it there—harsh but beautiful landscapes, salt-of-the-earth people.
And now—marriage. We laid the table, set out bread and salt, dressed in our best, waiting. The doorbell rang. I went to answer—and nearly lost my voice.
A woman stood there. Well, first I saw only a massive deerhide coat, and behind it—three children and Peter himself. The coat stepped inside, came off—and out stepped a slight, petite girl with thick black hair and sharp, bird-like eyes. Peter introduced her:
“This is Emily. My fiancée.”
My world tilted. The girl nodded silently while the children, without waiting for an invitation, plopped onto the floor. One started tugging off his wellies; another clambered onto the windowsill. The youngest, Emily deftly tethered to the sofa leg with a belt to keep him from bolting. All this unfolded in silence, wrapped in a smell—like the whole Highlands had marched into our London flat.
We moved to the living room. I’d laid out a white tablecloth, set the spread. Emily began serving the children—with her hands! Used a fork for herself but twirled it idly in her mouth. Spoke in clipped, abrupt phrases.
“Are these yours?” my husband asked, eyeing the trio on the floor.
“Mine,” she said flatly.
I exchanged looks with Peter’s father. Was this our family now?
“Peter, love, where did you meet?” I asked, voice betraying me with a tremor.
“In the Highlands, Mum. She sings like an angel. You should hear her!” he said, glowing with pride—a son I suddenly didn’t recognise.
“And where will you live?” my husband cut in.
“A bothy would do,” Peter shrugged, indifferent.
Something in me snapped. I retreated to the kitchen, my husband following. We stared at each other—wide-eyed.
“What do we do?”
“No idea,” he muttered, helpless.
Back in the room, my husband approached Peter and, avoiding his eyes, handed him cash:
“Here’s for a hotel. Sorry, but you can’t stay here.”
Peter sighed.
“You always said, ‘Just marry someone, we’ll accept anyone.’ So here she is.”
They left. With the kids. The coat. The smell.
Forty minutes later, the doorbell rang again. There they stood—but different. Emily, now coatless, wore a normal jacket, her hair in a ponytail, eyes bright with mischief.
“Hello,” she said politely. “We’re sorry.”
“I don’t understand,” I mumbled, stepping back.
Peter grinned, stepping forward:
“Mum, you’ve always nagged, ‘Just get married, just get married.’ Well—I don’t want to. Not yet. This is Emily, my mate. We thought we’d have a laugh. She’s from Inverness, visiting with her nieces and nephews. Had nowhere to stay. So I said, why not act it out?”
I sank onto the hallway stool, legs gone weak.
“Son, do what you like—but never scare me like that again. I nearly had a heart attack!”
We returned to the table. Emily, transformed, helped in the kitchen. The children sat properly, laughing. And my husband and I realised: yes, we’re getting old. But Peter’s prank? Bloody brilliant—terrifyingly real.
