Strangers in Our Flat Katie was the first to open the door and froze on the threshold. From inside drifted the sound of the television, voices in the kitchen, and an unfamiliar smell. Behind her, Max nearly dropped his suitcase in shock. “Quiet,” Katie whispered, holding out her hand. “There’s someone in there.” On their favourite beige sofa sprawled two complete strangers. A man in tracksuit bottoms flicked through TV channels, while next to him, a plump woman sat knitting. The coffee table held mugs, plates with crumbs, various medicines. “Excuse me, who are you?” Katie’s voice trembled. The strangers turned, entirely unembarrassed. “Oh, you’re back,” the woman said, barely pausing her knitting. “We’re Linda’s relatives. She gave us the key, said the owners were away.” Max paled. “Linda who?” “Your mum,” the man finally stood up. “We’re from Yorkshire—here with Michael for some tests. She let us stay, said you wouldn’t mind.” Katie walked into the kitchen. At the stove stood a teenager, frying sausages. The fridge was full of someone else’s food. The table was stacked with dirty dishes. “And who are you?” she managed. “Michael,” the boy turned. “Isn’t it allowed? Grandma Linda said it was fine.” She returned to the hallway, where Max was reaching for his phone. “Mum, what on earth have you done?” His voice, quiet but furious. From the speaker came her mother-in-law’s cheery reply: “Maxie, you’re back? How was your trip? Listen, I gave the keys to Sue and Victor―they’re up in London with Michael for the doctor. Figured, well, your flat’s empty, why let it go to waste? It’s only for a week.” “Mum, did you ask us?” “Why would I? You weren’t there! Just tell them I’m responsible and everything will be tidy.” Katie grabbed the phone. “Linda, are you serious? You let strangers into our home?” “Strangers? What strangers? Sue is my cousin! We shared a bed as kids.” “And what has that got to do with OUR flat?” “Oh, Katie, don’t make a fuss. They’re family. They’ll be no trouble. The boy’s not well, they needed help. Or are you really that cold?” Her husband took the phone back. “Mum, you’ll be here within the hour to collect them. All of them.” “But Maxie, they’re meant to stay till Thursday! Michael’s got appointments. They’d booked a hotel. I helped save them money…” “Mum. One hour. Or I call the police.” He hung up. Katie slumped on the ottoman, face in hands. Their suitcases were still packed. From the living room the telly blared; in the kitchen, sausages sizzled. Only two hours ago they’d been on the plane, dreaming of coming home. Now she was a guest in her own home. “We’ll pack up,” the woman from the living room appeared, apologetic. “Linda thought you wouldn’t mind. We’d have asked, but didn’t have your number. Linda offered, we just agreed. Planned a week for all the hospital things” Max stood silent by the window, shoulders rigid—just as when the topic was his mother and he didn’t know what to say. “And where’s our cat?” Katie suddenly remembered. “What cat?” “Milo. The ginger. That’s why you had the keys!” “No idea,” Sue shrugged. “Haven’t seen a cat.” Katie searched and found the cat wedged under the bed, fur on end, eyes wide. He hissed when she reached out. “Milo, love,” she lay on the floor, “It’s me. It’s all right now.” He stared warily. The room smelled strange. Medicines sat on her bedside table. The bed was made but not her way. Someone else’s slippers were on the carpet. Max knelt next to her. “Sorry.” “For what? You didn’t know.” “For mum. For her being like this.” “She thinks she’s right.” “She always does,” he fumed. “Remember when we first moved in, and she’d just turn up without warning? I thought I got the message across…” Voices in the hall. Linda had arrived, all outrage. “Max, what’s all this nonsense?” “Mum, sit down,” he gestured. “Sit? Sue, Victor, pack up—we’re being thrown out. You’ll stay at mine.” “Mum. Sit. Please.” Linda, realising her son’s stony face, subsided. The three went to the kitchen, where Michael was finishing his sausages. “Explain to me, mum, how you thought it was OK to let people into our flat without so much as a text?” “I was helping! Sue rang—Michael’s ill, they were coming to London, nowhere to stay. I knew the flat was empty.” “But it’s not your flat.” “How’s it not? I’ve got keys, haven’t I?” “Keys for feeding the cat. Not to run a B&B.” “Max, they’re family! Sue’s my cousin, Victor’s lovely, Michael’s sick. And you’d put them out on the street?” Katie’s hands shook as she poured water. “You didn’t ask us, Linda.” “Why would I? You weren’t here!” “All the more reason to ask,” Max’s voice rose. “We have phones. You could have called, texted—asked. We’d have worked it out.” “And refused?” “Maybe. Or agreed to a shorter stay, with some ground rules. But we’d have known. That’s called respect.” Linda stood. “You see. I try, I help, and I always get blamed. Sue, pack up. We’ll squeeze in mine.” “You’ve only got a one-bed. You said it was too small for four…” “We’ll manage. Better than staying with ingrates.” Katie set her glass down. “Linda, stop. You know exactly what you did wrong. Otherwise, you’d have called first.” She froze. “You knew we’d object. That’s why you just told us when it was too late. So we’d have no choice but to put up with it. Right?” “I meant well.” “No. You wanted your way. That’s different.” For the first time, Linda looked lost. “Sue was in tears. Michael’s in pain. I just wanted to help.” “We understand,” said Max. “But you can’t just take over. Mum, imagine if I came to yours while you were away and let my friends stay. Didn’t ask. How would you feel?” “I’d be angry.” “Exactly.” They sat in silence. Sue quietly wept, Victor packed. Michael stood awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. “Sorry,” mumbled the boy. “I thought it was OK. Grandma Linda said so.” Katie gave him a tired look. Just a frightened, guilty lad. None of this was his fault. “It’s not your fault,” she sighed. “Go help your parents.” Linda wiped her eyes with a tissue. “I really thought it was right. Didn’t think to ask. You’re my children, I always did everything, thought you’d understand.” “We’re not children, mum. We’re in our thirties. We have our own life.” “I get it,” Linda stood. “Do you want the keys back?” “We do,” Katie said. “Sorry, but trust is broken.” “I understand.” Sue’s family packed fast, apologising awkwardly. Linda took them away, promising she’d make space. Max shut the door and leaned against it. They wandered through their home. The bed needed remaking. The fridge needed sorting. There were things out of place everywhere: forgotten bits, moved furniture, dirty dishes. Milo stayed under the bed. “Do you think she understood?” Katie asked, opening the kitchen window. “I hope so.” “And if not?” “We’ll be firmer next time. Never again.” Katie hugged her husband. They stood in their disrupted home in silence. “You know what hurts most?” she pulled away. “The cat. This was all for him, and he’s been ignored all week, scared, starving.” “Did they even feed him?” “Doesn’t look like it. Empty dish, murky water. I doubt they even remembered him.” Max crouched by the bed. “Milo, mate, I’m sorry. No more keys for grandma.” The cat peeked out warily, then slowly emerged and rubbed against Max’s legs. Katie brought food, and he devoured it as if he hadn’t eaten in days. They began to clean—their things, their routines, slowly reclaiming their home. Milo ate, then curled up in the window, finally peaceful. That evening, Linda called. Her voice was quiet, ashamed. “Max, I’ve been thinking. You were right. I’m sorry.” “Thank you, mum.” “Is Katie angry?” He looked at his wife—she nodded. “She is. But she’ll forgive you. In time.” Afterwards, they sat drinking tea, saying little. Night gathered outside. The flat was clean, quiet, theirs again—though their holiday had ended, suddenly and harshly.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 9 minViews 2

I was the first to unlock our flats door after we got back and instantly froze on the threshold. I could hear a television blaring, voices chatting in the kitchen, and everything smelt off. James stumbled against my suitcase, obviously just as startled.

Quiet, I whispered, extending an arm to halt him. Theres someone in there.

On our favourite beige sofa lounged two unfamiliar figures. A man in cheap tracksuit bottoms flicked through the channels, while beside him a well-built woman sat, knitting. The coffee table in front of them was cluttered with mugs, plates covered in crumbs, and various packets of medication.

Excuse me, who are you? My voice wobbled.

They turned towards us without a hint of embarrassment.

Oh, youre back! The woman didnt even pause her needles. Were Paulines relatives. She gave us the keys, said the place was empty.

James went pale. Pauline who?

Your mum, the man replied, finally getting up. Were from Liverpool and have come down so Ben can see the doctors. Pauline put us up here, said you wouldnt mind.

I shuffled slowly to the kitchen. At the hob was a teenage boy, about fifteen, frying sausages. The fridge was packed with unfamiliar groceries, a heap of dirty dishes stacked on the table.

And who are you? I asked, barely above a whisper.

Im Ben, he replied. Is it not okay to eat? Nan Pauline said it was fine.

I walked back to the hall; James was already fiddling with his mobile.

Mum, what have you done? His voice was soft but icy.

Paulines lively answer came crackling down the line, Jamie! Back from holiday, are you? Listen, I gave Suzie the keys she and Gary needed somewhere to stay while Bens at the hospital. Thought the flat was empty! No sense it going to waste, is there? Its just for a week.

Mum, did you even ask us?

She chuckled, What was the need? You werent here! Just tell them Ill make sure its all tidy when they leave.

I grabbed the phone. Pauline, are you serious? You let strangers into our home?

Strangers? Suzies my cousin! We shared a bed as kids.

And why does that matter to me? This is our flat!

Oh, dont get in a state, darling. Theyre quiet, wont break a thing. Bens unwell, they needed help. Or are you really so selfish?

James took the phone again, voice colder, Mum, youve got one hour to come and get them. All of them.

But Jamie, theyre meant to stay till Thursday! Bens got appointments. Theyd have wasted a fortune on a hotel. I just helped out

One hour. Or we call the police.

He hung up. I slumped onto the hall ottoman, face in my hands, while our suitcases sat unopened. The telly blared on, sausages sizzled. Just two hours ago, on the plane, Id been daydreaming about coming home and now, here I was, an outsider in my own living room.

Well get our things together, the woman in the lounge said, appearing by the door with an apologetic look. Pauline said you wouldnt mind. We didnt have your number or wed have rung ourselves. She offered, we agreed, seems fair enough. We just needed somewhere for the week, for hospital visits.

James stood by the window, back taut; I recognised that posture. He always looked like that when he was furious with his mum but couldnt put it into words.

Wheres our cat? I suddenly panicked.

What cat?

Percy. Ginger we left the keys with your family for him.

No idea, Suzie shrugged. Havent seen him.

I dashed to search. Percy was wedged tightly beneath the bed, eyes wide and fur fluffed up. When I tried to coax him out, he hissed and flattened his ears.

Percy, darling, I lay flat on the floor. Its me. Youre safe now.

He stared at me suspiciously. Everything smelt foreign even my bedside table was covered in unfamiliar medicine packets, the bed remade all wrong, random slippers strewn about.

James joined me.

Sorry, he muttered.

For what? You didnt know either.

For my mum. For her being like this.

She genuinely thinks shes in the right.

She always does, he gritted out. Remember when wed only just moved in and she kept popping round unannounced? Thought Id made myself clear. Turns out, not enough.

Suddenly there were voices in the hallway. Pauline had arrived, and I stood, smoothing down my hair, bracing myself.

Pauline marched in looking put out. James, have you lost your mind?

Mum. Sit down, he gestured to the kitchen.

What? Oh, dont bother. She turned to her guests. Suzie, Gary, pack up were being chucked out. Youll stay at mine.

Mum, just sit down, he repeated.

She eventually took in her sons expression and quietened. We all crammed into the kitchen, Ben finishing the last mouthfuls of sausage.

Mum, James began, sitting opposite. Explain to me how you ever thought it was okay to give our flat to someone else without asking.

I was helping! Suzie phoned in tears Ben was so poorly, they had to come to London. Nowhere to stay. Seemed a waste with your place empty.

It isnt your flat, though.

Oh, but I have the spare keys

For feeding Percy, not operating a B&B.

James, theyre family! Suzies my cousin, Garys a solid man, Bens ill. How could you turn them away?

My hands shook as I poured a glass of water.

You didnt ask us, Pauline.

What for? You werent here!

Thats exactly why you should have, Mum, James raised his voice. We have phones, were not hard to reach. You couldve called, or texted. Wed have talked it through.

And youd have just said no, wouldnt you?

Maybe. Or agreed just for a couple of nights with ground rules. But wed have known. Its called respect.

Pauline rose abruptly. Thats always the way. I try my best, but its never enough. Suzie, start packing, well go to mine.

Mum, youre in a one-bed. You said yourself there isnt room for four.

Well manage. At least we wont be put out by selfishness!

I set my glass down, fighting to stay calm. Pauline, stop. You know you were in the wrong. Otherwise youd have told us in advance.

She froze.

You knew wed object, so you just sprung it on us, hoping wed find the house full and just put up with it, didnt you?

I only meant well.

No. You wanted your way. Theres a difference.

For the first time, she looked genuinely uncertain.

Suzie was so upset. Ben was in pain. My heart broke

We understand, Mum, James said softly. But you cant make decisions about things that arent yours. Think how youd feel if I let my mates stay in your flat while you were away without asking. Would you be happy?

Id be furious.

There you go, then.

We sat in silence. From the living room came the sounds of hurried packing. Suzie was quietly sobbing; Gary stuffed things into bags. Ben hovered in the doorway, eyes on the floor.

Sorry, the boy mumbled. I thought it was okay. Nan said it was.

I gave him a tired smile. None of this is your fault. Go help your parents pack up.

Pauline dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. I really thought I was helping. I didnt think to ask. Youre my children, Ive always done everything for you, just assumed youd do the same

Were not children any more, Mum, James said quietly. Were both thirty. We have our own lives.

I see, she said, rising. You want the spare keys back?

Yes. Im sorry, but youve broken our trust.

I understand.

Suzie and her family were quick about leaving lingering clumsy apologies at the door. Pauline herded them out, promising to squeeze them into her tiny flat. James locked up and sagged against the door.

We surveyed the mess. The beds needed changing, fridge clearing, furniture was out of place, dirty plates everywhere. Percy remained under the bed, refusing to come out.

Do you think she gets it? I asked as I opened a kitchen window.

I hope so, James said. If not, well be blunt. Im not letting this happen again.

I hugged him. We stood, side by side, in the middle of that stranger-made chaos in our own home.

What bothers me most? I stepped back. The cat. We left all those keys and instructions for him and hes been scared and hungry through the whole circus.

They didnt feed him, did they?

Looks like not. His bowls empty, waters grey. I bet he was ignored.

James crouched beside the bed. Sorry, Percy, mate. No more keys going to Mum.

Percy poked his nose out, at last, and after a minute, tentatively crept into Jamess lap. I fetched him food. He attacked it as if he hadnt eaten in days.

We began the long job of cleaning binning leftovers, stripping beds, washing up. Percy, finally fed, curled up on the windowsill and drifted off. Slowly, our flat felt like ours once again.

That evening, Pauline rang. Her voice was quiet, even remorseful.

James, Ive been thinking. You were right. Im sorry.

Thank you, Mum.

Is Emily still angry with me?

James looked at me. I nodded. She is. But shell forgive you. In time.

Afterwards, we sat in silence drinking tea at the kitchen table, night falling outside. Our flat was ours again quiet, clean, and peaceful. Our holiday had ended abruptly and ruthlessly, but at least we had our home and each other back.

I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! As the doors of the reception hall slowly swung open, warm golden light spilled into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, carefully holding up the hem and trying not to betray the trembling in my hands. The music played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out bubbling glasses of champagne—everything was as Artem and I had dreamed. Well, almost. Just as I was catching my breath before stepping into the hall, the screech of brakes suddenly pierced the quiet. Through the glass entrance, I spotted an old silver people carrier pulling up to the steps. The door slid open, and out came a noisy crew: Auntie Gail, her daughter and son-in-law… and five children already racing around the car. I went cold. “Please, not this,” I whispered. Artem stepped closer. “Did they actually come?” he asked, looking in the same direction. “Yes. And… with children.” We stood frozen in the doorway, ready to be announced and swept into the celebration as husband and wife, but instead we were two actors suddenly at a loss for lines on opening night. At that moment, I understood: if I didn’t keep it together now, the entire day would be ruined. But to make sense of how we got here, you’d have to go back several weeks. When Artem and I decided to get married, we knew one thing: we wanted a quiet, intimate, cosy wedding. Only 40 guests, live jazz, soft lighting, a warm atmosphere. And—no children. Not because we dislike children. But because we dreamed of an evening free from dashing about, high-pitched screams, tumbling off bouncy castles, spilled juice, and other people’s midnight lectures. All our friends understood. My parents did too. Artem’s parents were surprised, but quickly got over it. But the extended family… Auntie Gail called first—a woman whose volume is coded firmly in her DNA. “Inna!” she started without a hello. “What’s this about no kids at the wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Gail,” I answered calmly. “We just want a peaceful evening, so all the adults can relax.” “Relax from children?!” She sounded so scandalised, you’d think I’d proposed a nationwide ban on babies. “Don’t you get it? We’re a close family! We always go everywhere together!” “It’s our special day. We aren’t forcing anyone to come, but that’s our rule.” A heavy pause, as solid as granite. “Fine, then. We won’t be there,” she snapped, and hung up. I looked at the phone, feeling like I’d just hit the big red ‘disaster’ button. Three days later, Artem arrived home, looking grim. “Inna… can we talk?” “What’s wrong?” “Katya’s in tears. She says it’s an insult to the family. That her three kids aren’t some sort of wild monsters, but normal people, and if they’re not wanted, she’s not coming either—not her, her husband, or her in-laws.” “So, five fewer?” “Eight,” he corrected, collapsing onto the sofa. “They say we’re breaking tradition.” I couldn’t help but laugh—a hysterical, broken sort of laugh. “What tradition? Letting kids take out waiters with snack trays?” Artem managed a smile. “Don’t say that to them. They’re ready to riot.” But the campaign didn’t stop there. A week later, we went for family dinner at Artem’s parents’ place, and there I got a surprise. His grandmother, quiet and usually invisible, suddenly took charge. “Children are a blessing,” she scolded. “Without them, a wedding feels empty.” I was about to reply, but Artem’s mum got there first. “Mum, please! Children at weddings are chaos. You complain about the noise yourself. How many times have we crawled under tables to catch the little runners?” “But family should be together!” “Family should respect the wishes of the ones getting married,” his mother said, perfectly calm. I wanted to stand up and cheer. But Grandma only shook her head. “I still think you’re wrong.” That’s when I knew: this had officially become a family drama on par with Game of Thrones. And we were the king and queen under siege. The knockout punch came a few days later. Ring. Uncle Mike’s name flashed up—normally as unflappable as an English oak. “Inna, hi,” he began gently. “We’ve been talking… Why no children? They’re part of us—you know we always go to weddings together.” I sighed. “Mike, we just want a calm evening. Honestly, we’re not forcing anyone…” “Yes, yes, I get it. But… Olya says if the children aren’t included, she won’t come. And I’ll stay with her.” I closed my eyes. Two more off the list. By now our guest count was dropping like January pounds. Artem sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulders. “We’re doing the right thing,” he said quietly. “It’s our day, not theirs.” But the pressure kept coming. Grandma would throw in, “Without children’s laughter, it’ll all feel lifeless.” Katya posted in the family WhatsApp: “A shame, really, when some people don’t want children at their celebrations…” And then—the wedding day. The people carrier pulled up right in front of the steps. Children were out first, marching across the paving as if they’d rehearsed it. Auntie Gail followed, adjusting her handbag. “I’m going mad,” I whispered. Artem squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.” We walked outside to greet them. Auntie Gail sailed onto the top step. “Well hello, newlyweds!” she declared in a stage voice. “Sorry we’re late, but we decided to come after all. We’re family, you know! Couldn’t leave the children—no one to watch them. But they’ll be very quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artem muttered, eyeing the kids already poking their heads under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Gail… We agreed, very clearly: no children. You knew this from the start.” “But it’s a wedding…” she began. That’s when Grandma stepped in. “We’re here to celebrate you,” she said, measured, “but children are family. It’s wrong to separate them out.” “Mrs. Paulson,” I said as gently as I could, “We’re glad you’re here, truly. But this was our choice. And if people can’t respect that, we’ll have to ask—” I didn’t get to finish. “Mum!” Artem’s mother cut in, emerging from the hall. “Stop ruining their day. Adults party—children stay home. End of. Let’s go.” Grandma blinked. Auntie Gail froze. Even the children went suddenly silent—sensing the shift. Gail sniffled. “Well… okay. We didn’t mean to cause trouble. We just thought it would be better this way.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said. “But the children need to go home.” Katya rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes of silent standoff, and then—without a word—they led the children back to the car. Katya’s husband got in and drove them home. The adults remained. For the first time, completely voluntarily. When we entered the hall, it was perfect: candlelight, jazz, a gentle hum of conversation. Friends raised glasses, gentlemen made way, waiters poured the champagne. I realised then: we had done the right thing. Artem leaned in: “So, wife… I think we won.” “I think so too,” I smiled. The evening was wonderful. Our first dance—no little feet underfoot. No one shouting or dropping cakes, no Peppa Pig videos blaring from a mobile. Just grown-ups chatting, laughing, enjoying the music. A few hours later, Grandma approached. “Inna, Artem,” she said softly. “I was wrong. Tonight is… nice. Really nice. So peaceful.” I smiled warmly. “Thank you, Mrs. Paulson.” She sighed. “Old habits die hard. But you knew best.” Those words meant more to me than any wedding toast. Towards the end, Auntie Gail came over, clutching her Prosecco as if it were a shield. “Inna…” she lowered her voice. “I went overboard. Sorry. We’ve always had kids everywhere. But tonight… it was beautiful. Peaceful. Grown-up.” “Thanks for being here,” I replied, honestly. “We never get to relax, being parents. But tonight… I felt like a real person again,” she confided. “A bit sad we never thought of this before.” We hugged. Weeks of tension melted away. When the reception ended, Artem and I stepped out into the lamplight. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders. “So, what did you think of our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “Because we stood our ground.” I nodded. That was what mattered. Family is important. Tradition matters too. But boundaries are just as important. And if the couple says “no children at the wedding,” it isn’t a whim—it’s their right. As it turns out, even the clunkiest family traditions can change—if you make it clear the decision is final. That day was a lesson for all of us—especially for Artem and me: sometimes, to save your celebration, you need to be able to say “no.” And that “no” makes for a truly happy day.

—I Told You Not to Bring Your Children to the Wedding! The doors of the reception hall slowly opened, spilling warm golden light into the foyer. I stood there in my wedding dress, holding up my hem, trying not to let my trembling hands betray me. Jazz played softly, guests smiled, waiters set out glasses of champagne… Everything was just as Artie and I had dreamed. Almost. As I caught my breath before stepping into the hall, a screech of brakes echoed from outside. Through the glass doors I saw an old silver minivan pull up to the steps. The door sprang open, and out tumbled a noisy crew: Aunt Gail, her daughter with her husband… and five children, who immediately started racing around the car. My blood ran cold. “Not this,” I whispered. Artie stepped closer. “They really came?” he asked, peering outside. “Yes. And… with the kids.” We stood at the threshold, ready to join the guests, but instead froze, like actors who’d forgotten their lines before opening night. At that moment, I realised: if I didn’t hold my ground right now, the whole day would be ruined. But to understand how we ended up in this absurd situation, let’s rewind a few weeks. When Artie and I decided to get married, we were sure of one thing: it would be intimate, cosy, and calm. Just 40 guests, live jazz, soft lighting, a warm atmosphere. And—no children. Not because we don’t like kids. But because we dreamed of a peaceful evening, free from racing, shouting, bouncy castle mishaps, spilled juice, and awkward parental scoldings. All our friends understood. So did my parents. Artie’s parents were surprised, but quickly accepted it. Extended family, however… The first call was from Aunt Gail—a woman whose voice comes with a built-in megaphone. “Ina!” she began without greeting. “What’s this about no kids at the wedding? Are you serious?” “Yes, Gail,” I replied calmly. “We want a quiet evening so all the adults can relax.” “Relax from the children?!” she was so outraged it sounded like I’d called for a national baby ban. “Do you realise we’re a close family? We go everywhere together!” “It’s our day. No one has to come, but that’s the rule.” Silence. Heavy as granite. “Fine. Then we won’t come,” she said briskly, and hung up. I sat holding the phone, feeling like I’d just pressed the big red button to start a disaster. Three days later Artie came home, looking grim. “Ina… Can we talk?” he said, taking off his coat. “What’s wrong?” “Kate’s in tears. She says it’s a family humiliation. Her three kids aren’t unruly monsters—they’re normal children. And if they can’t come, well, neither will she, her husband, or his parents.” “So that’s… five less?” “Eight,” he corrected, sinking onto the sofa. “They say we broke tradition.” I laughed—hysterically, nervously, with an edge. “What tradition? Bringing kids who knock the canapés off waiters’ trays?” Artie smirked, “Don’t say that to them. They’re already on edge.” But the pushback didn’t end there. A week later, we went to dinner at his parents’. There, I got a surprise. His gran—quiet, gentle Granny Antonia, who usually prays not to be involved in family drama—suddenly spoke up. “Children are a blessing,” she said reproachfully. “Without them, a wedding… feels empty.” I opened my mouth, but Artie’s mum beat me to it. “Mum, enough!” she sighed, leaning back. “Kids at weddings make chaos. You always complained about the noise. How many times did we chase tiny runners under the tables?” “But family should be together!” “Family should respect the couple’s wishes,” Artie’s mum said calmly. I wanted to stand and applaud. Gran just shook her head. “I still think it’s wrong.” And I realised: the drama had reached ‘Game of Thrones’ level family feud. We were the king and queen under siege. The knockout blow came a few days later. The phone rang. It was Artie’s uncle, Michael—the calmest, most unflappable, “this doesn’t concern me” kind of man. “Ina, hi…” he began gently. “Ollie and I have been thinking… Why no children? They’re a part of us. We always come to weddings together.” “Michael,” I sighed, “we just want a calm evening. No one’s forced to come…” “Yes, I heard that. But Ollie says—if our kids can’t come, neither will she. And so will I.” Another two down. By now, our guest list was on a crash diet, 15 people lighter. Artie sat beside me, put his arm around my shoulder. “We’re doing the right thing,” he said softly. “Otherwise, it won’t be our wedding.” But the pressure kept coming. Granny hinting: “Without children’s laughter, it will feel dead.” Kate posting drama in the family group chat: “Such a shame some don’t want children at their celebrations…” And then—the wedding day. The minivan stopped at the steps. Kids charged ahead, pounding the pavement like a marching band. Aunt Gail followed, fussing with her hair. “I’m going mad…” I whispered. Artie squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll sort it.” We went out to meet them. Aunt Gail had already reached the top step. “Well, hello newlyweds!” she boomed theatrically. “Sorry we’re late. But we just had to come. We’re family, after all! Of course, we couldn’t leave the kids behind. They’ll be quiet. We won’t stay long.” “Quiet?” Artie muttered, eyeing the children already peeking under the wedding arch. I took a deep breath. “Gail… We agreed,” I said, calm but clear. “No children. You knew that.” “But… it’s a wedding…” she began. Granny weighed in. “We came to congratulate you,” she said evenly. “But kids are part of the family. It’s wrong to exclude them.” “Antonia,” I said gently, “we’re glad you’re here. But this is our choice. If it’s not respected, we’ll have to ask—” I didn’t finish. “MUM!” Artie’s mum snapped, coming out of the hall. “Stop ruining their special day. Grown-ups celebrate—kids stay home. End of! Let’s go.” Gran hesitated. Aunt Gail froze. The children fell quiet—sensing the mood shift. Aunt Gail sniffed. “Well… right. We didn’t mean to cause trouble. Just thought it’d be best.” “You don’t have to leave,” I said. “But the children must go home.” Kate rolled her eyes. Her husband sighed. Two minutes’ silence—then the kids were quietly ushered back into the car. Kate’s husband drove them home, while the grown-ups stayed. For the first time—by choice. When we entered the hall, it was perfect. Candlelight, jazz, soft voices. Friends raised their glasses, gentlemen made way, a waiter offered us champagne. And at that moment, I knew: we’d done the right thing. Artie leant over. “So, wife… Looks like we won.” “Looks like it,” I smiled. The evening was magical. We danced our first dance without little ones underfoot. Nobody screamed, dropped cupcakes, or played cartoons at full volume. Guests chatted, laughed, enjoyed the music. A few hours in, Gran approached. “Ina, Artie…” she said quietly. “I was wrong. Tonight is… lovely. So peaceful.” I gave her a warm smile. “Thank you, Antonia.” “It’s just… old habits die hard. But you knew what you were doing.” Those words meant more than any toast. Near the end of the night, Aunt Gail joined me, clutching her wine glass like a shield. “Ina…” she whispered. “I overreacted. Sorry. It’s just… we always did things this way. But tonight… it’s beautiful. Quiet. Grown-up.” “Thanks for coming,” I replied sincerely. “We hardly ever relax without the kids. But tonight… I actually felt like myself again,” she admitted. “Funny I never thought of it before.” We hugged. Weeks of tension faded away. At the end of the evening, Artie and I stepped outside beneath the soft glow of the lamps. He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “So… how do you feel about our wedding?” he asked. “It was perfect,” I said. “Because it was ours.” “And because we stood our ground.” I nodded. Yes, that was the most important thing. Family matters. So do traditions. But respecting boundaries matters, too. And if the couple says “no kids,” it’s not a whim. It’s their right. And as it turned out, even the most stubborn family habits can shift—if you stand firm. This wedding was a lesson for everyone—especially us: sometimes, to save the celebration, you have to say “no.” And that “no” is what makes the day truly happy.