The Default Break-Up: When Meeting the Parents Means Choosing Sides — “Everything will be fine,” whispered Will quietly, trying to sound confident. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and pressed the doorbell. The evening promised to be a challenge—how could it be any other way? Meeting the parents was always a milestone… The door opened almost immediately. Mrs. Alice Preston stood on the threshold. She looked immaculate—her hair neatly styled, a sharply tailored dress, a hint of make-up. Her eyes lingered on Laura, paused at the basket of homemade cookies, and her lips pursed ever so slightly. The gesture was fleeting, almost invisible, but Laura caught it. “Come in,” said Mrs. Preston, her voice lacking warmth as she stepped aside to let them pass. Will entered, avoiding his mother’s gaze; Laura followed, stepping cautiously over the threshold. The flat greeted them with soft lighting and the scent of sandalwood. It was cozy, but almost too perfect. Not a stray item, not a book left askew, not a misplaced scarf. Everything was in its place, every detail screaming order and control. Mrs. Preston led them into the lounge—a spacious room with a large window and thick cream curtains. In the centre stood a massive sofa upholstered in expensive fabric, next to a low dark-wood coffee table. She gestured towards the sofa, inviting them to sit. “Tea? Coffee?” she inquired, still not meeting Laura’s eyes. Her voice was even, emotionless—a formality more than hospitality. “I’d love some tea, thank you,” Laura replied politely, her voice steady and friendly. She placed the cookie basket on the table, neatly untied the ribbon, and lifted the lid. The scent of fresh biscuits quickly filled the room. “I brought some cookies. Baked them myself. Please, help yourself…” Mrs. Preston gave the basket a moment’s glance, then nodded. “Very nice,” she said, making for the kitchen. “I’ll just get the tea.” Once she left, Will leant toward Laura and whispered, “I’m sorry. Mum’s always… reserved.” “Don’t worry,” Laura smiled, squeezing his hand. “I get it. As long as you’re with me, that’s what matters.” While Mrs. Preston prepared the tea, the room fell silent. Laura looked around—the decor was posh and tidy, but felt cold and uninviting. As if this were a showroom, not a home. Mrs. Preston returned with a tray: delicate porcelain cups with a floral pattern, a silver teapot and a plate with the cookies set in a perfect circle. She poured the tea unhurriedly and settled in an armchair opposite, arms crossed. “So, Laura,” she began, scrutinizing the young woman. Her eyes took in every detail—hair, eyes, even how Laura held her cup. “Will tells me you’re in university? Studying to become a nursery teacher?” “Yes, I’m in my third year,” Laura nodded, forcing her hands to stay steady as she put her cup down. “I really enjoy working with children. It’s important—to help them grow, to see them learn.” “Working with children,” Mrs. Preston repeated with faint irony, raising a brow. “Admirable, of course. But you’re aware nursery teachers aren’t exactly well paid? These days, it pays to think ahead—about your future, stability.” Will bristled. “Mum, why always about money? Laura loves her work, that’s what matters. Money will come with time. Supporting each other is more important.” Mrs. Preston turned her head to her son, but made no reply. She sipped her tea slowly, weighing her words. “Passion for your job is wonderful,” she finally said, addressing Laura again. “But the reality is, love alone doesn’t pay bills. Have you thought about where you’ll work after graduation? Any plans for the next few years?” Laura took a deep breath, composing herself. She realised this was more test than conversation. “Yes, of course,” she answered smoothly. “I’m hoping to start in a local nursery, get experience, maybe later take some specialist courses—to work with children with special needs. It won’t be easy, but I feel it’s my calling.” Mrs. Preston nodded silently, gaze unreadable. “I’m not planning to rely on Will,” Laura added. “I want to work and be independent, and believe that we can build a strong relationship—supporting each other not just with money, but by doing things that matter.” “Interesting view,” Mrs. Preston replied, tilting her head. “But have you considered a more lucrative career? With your attributes you could go far in sales, marketing. The pay’s much better.” Will moved to protest, but Laura stopped him with a gesture. She felt it was important to stand her ground. “And what do you do for work?” she asked Mrs. Preston directly. There was a beat of surprise—Mrs. Preston momentarily thrown, then composed herself. “I… I don’t work,” she said after a pause. “My husband provides for us. I manage the home, help him where I can—that’s work too, albeit unpaid.” “I understand,” Laura nodded, growing more resolute. “But if you chose not to work, why insist I must pursue a higher-paid job—giving up what I love—for the sake of money? I’m not asking Will to provide for me.” A heavy silence descended. Mrs. Preston stared at Laura, reassessing her. “My husband wanted me to give up work. He could support us, you see. But Will…” Will shifted uneasily, the tension settling in. “Laura, you know… Mum just wants the best for us, to avoid problems down the line.” Laura looked at him in disbelief. Moments ago he’d defended her; now, he seemed to waver. Her chest tightened—he was doubting her right when she needed him most. “So you agree with her?” she asked evenly. “You think I shouldn’t do what I enjoy? That I should force myself—just for a better salary?” “Well… not exactly…” Will hesitated, fingers twisting nervously. “But Mum’s right about our future. We can’t just live for today. We need to be responsible.” Mrs. Preston turned to Laura, hands still folded, voice softer but insistent. “Laura, do you seriously expect my son to give up his dreams? He’s always wanted to be a journalist, to travel, write—his job is his passion. Will he have to abandon all that, just to provide for a family?” Laura began to reply, but Will jumped in. “Mum, I—” “No, Will. Answer honestly,” Mrs. Preston cut him off. “Are you ready to give up your dreams for this girl? To forget travel, interesting assignments, the work you love?” Will was silent. He looked at Laura, who refused to speak, letting him decide. Inside, he was torn—one part wanted to reassure Laura that together they’d make it, the other feared his mother was right. “I… I don’t want to give up my dream. But I also don’t want to lose Laura. We can find a way for both our careers. We’ll support each other.” Mrs. Preston sighed but gave no further argument. She relaxed back, signalling she’d said her piece. “How funny,” Laura said, not hiding her disappointment. “So Will can keep his dreams, but I must give up mine? I must find a high-paid job while Will just enjoys life? Doesn’t that seem unfair?” Will looked down, hands shaking so the teacup rattled. His thoughts chased each other—they couldn’t please everyone. “Well… maybe you’ll both have to compromise…” he muttered. “Compromise?” Mrs. Preston scoffed. “You know that’s impossible. You either commit to your career or…” She fell silent, her meaning plain. Will bit his tongue; he wanted to protest that people do combine careers and family now, but Mum’s look, as always, made him feel small. “Well, I think that’s enough for today,” Mrs. Preston concluded, standing gracefully. “It’s getting dark and our area gets rough in the evenings. Best you head home, Laura. Will—we need to talk. Now!” It was less suggestion, more decree. Will made a feeble protest. “Mum, maybe I can walk Laura to the bus stop—” “Absolutely not!” she snapped without looking back. “I’ll worry. Stay here.” Will slumped, resigned. Once his mother had decided, there was no point arguing. “Sorry, Laura,” he whispered, eyes lowered. “Maybe Mum’s right. I can’t walk you out. Get a taxi, okay?” Laura just nodded. She put her cup down, collected her things and stood. “Okay,” she said blandly, though inside she seethed with hurt and disappointment. “I’ll go then.” She straightened her cardigan, as if to armour herself. No more forced smiles—she just wanted to leave this house, this perfection that made her feel so out of place. “Thank you for the tea,” she said with measured politeness, and let the icy note show. No more trying to please—only formal courtesy. “Goodbye,” Mrs. Preston replied, still not looking at her. Laura walked to the door, moving calmly despite the tension. At the threshold, she glanced back—Will was slumped, head down, unmoving. He didn’t raise his eyes or try to stop her, or say a word. His silence drew the final line in her mind. Outside, she breathed the cool evening air. Some tension faded. Anger, hurt and disappointment battled inside, but one thing was clear: Will would always choose his mother. Even if it meant choosing against her. She walked, first slowly, then faster, as if she could outrun her thoughts. But they dogged her—”He didn’t defend me. He didn’t stand up for my choices.” She clenched her fists, determined not to cry. At home, she locked herself in, took off her shoes and sat in the hallway. The quiet soothed her. She let herself exhale and allow the storm to subside. She realised—this was not the end of the world. It was just the end of a story, one that perhaps never should have begun. With tomorrow would come new opportunities. And she knew she’d manage. ******************* The next day, Laura ignored Will’s calls. She needed time to decide what she wanted. Even if they stayed together, she’d always have to compete with his mum. And Will… would always hesitate. Every choice, every decision would have to pass through Mrs. Preston’s filter. The future looked bleak. Days went by, Laura drifting through her studies and routines on autopilot. She tried not to think of Will, but the memory of their last conversation, his silence, haunted her. After a few days, coming home from class, Laura spotted a familiar face near her building. “Laura!” She turned. Will stood by the gate, hunched, hands in pockets, avoiding her eyes. “We need to talk,” he began, staring at the pavement. “Mum told me… really, she thinks you’re not right for me.” Laura raised her eyebrows. Inside she braced herself, but kept her voice calm. “And what do you think?” she asked. Will shuffled his feet. “She’s my mum,” he finally said. “I don’t want to upset her.” It sounded less like a conviction than an excuse. “So you agree with her?” Laura asked, though she already knew. “I’m not saying I agree,” Will said quickly, “but she’s family. I can’t just turn my back.” He stopped, hoping Laura would rescue the conversation. She was silent, thinking: What if this never changed? What if every decision always meant choosing between me and his mum? “Do you want to be with me?” she finally asked, meeting his gaze. Will hesitated, mouth opening, but no words came. He sighed and slumped his shoulders, unable to give her the answer she needed. Laura nodded, as if confirming what she’d long suspected. She didn’t demand anything more; she simply turned and headed inside, leaving Will on the pavement. That evening, Laura walked through quiet, autumn-scented streets. For the first time in days, she laughed. The sound was light, almost care-free. Looking up at the scattered lights, she realised: whatever lies ahead, she can face it. She no longer needed to fit anyone’s expectations. She was free. And that was the most important thing of all.

The Default Break

All will be well, Harry whispered under his breath, hoping his voice sounded braver than he felt. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and pressed the doorbell. The evening promised to be tryingthen again, an introduction to the parents seldom went otherwise.

The door opened almost immediately. Mrs. Diana Hudson stood before them. She looked immaculateher golden hair was pinned in a perfect chignon, her dress crisply tailored, her face dusted with a touch of powder and faint rouge. Her gaze skimmed over Emily, lingered on the box of scones in her hand, and then, ever so slightly, her lips thinned. If you werent looking for it, youd miss the gesture, but Emily saw it nonetheless.

Do come in, said Mrs. Hudson, her tone devoid of warmth as she stepped aside for them.

Harry stepped into the hallway, careful not to catch his mothers eye; Emily followed, placing each foot over the threshold with care. The house welcomed them with soft lamplight and the faintest trace of sandalwood. Everything was orderlyalmost obsessively so. No stray shoes, no half-read novels lounging on an armchair, not even a scarf forgotten on the banister. Every item was in its place, each detail quietly insisting that order and control reigned here.

Mrs. Hudson ushered them into the sitting rooma spacious parlour with a grand window, tightly curtained in cream damask. At the centre sat a substantial settee in velvet, flanked by a low mahogany coffee table. A deft gesture indicated they should sit.

Tea? Coffee? she offered, still pointedly not looking at Emily. Her voice was almost unfeelingnot an act of hospitality, strictly ceremony.

Id love a cup of tea, Emily replied politely, keeping her tone calm and kindly. She set the scones on the table, untied the ribbon carefully, and lifted the lid. Instantly, the warm aroma of home-baked treats filled the room. I made some scones. Please, help yourself, if you like

Mrs. Hudsons eyes flickered to the box; she gave a short nod.

Very good, she said before disappearing toward the kitchen. Ill fetch the tea.

Once shed gone, Harry leaned in and muttered, Sorry, shes always rather reserved.

Thats all right, Emily squeezed his hand, managing a reassuring smile. I understand. The important thing is youre here.

While Mrs. Hudson prepared the tea, silence settled over the room. Emily took note of her surroundingsexpensive, gleaming, neatbut somehow more like a carefully staged room in a country house than a place to live. Somehow, she felt not like a guest, but an intruder.

Soon Mrs. Hudson returned with a traydelicate porcelain cups, dainty with a painted posy, a silver teapot, and a plate with the scones set in a neat circle. She set the tray down, poured tea with slow precision, and seated herself directly opposite, her posture as immaculate as her coiffure.

So then, Emily, she began, scrutinising her. She took in everythingthe French braid, the quiet intelligence in her eyes, the way her hands steadied the teacup. Harry tells me youre at university. Training to teach, is it?

In my third year, Emily nodded, praying her voice wouldnt betray her nerves. She set the cup down, so her hands wouldnt shake. I thoroughly enjoy itworking with children is so rewarding. Theres nothing so important as helping them grow, learn, find confidence.

With children, Mrs. Hudson said, her brow arching with a delicate irony. Its a noble enough calling. But, surely, you know teachers salaries are modest? In these times, its prudent to think of security and the future.

Harry bristled. Mum, does it always come down to money? His voice sharper than intended, but he softens almost immediately, Emily loves her work, thats what matters. The rest will follow. Together, we can manage, and thats what counts.

Mrs. Hudson angled her head, but let the silence linger, sipping her tea as though weighing every syllable.

Loving what you do is wonderful, she eventually said, her eyes back on Emily. But love alone often falls short of reality. Have you given thought to your plans once you finish? A test, unmistakably.

I have, Emily answered calmly. I mean to start teaching at a local primary, build up experience. Then, perhaps, Ill take further trainingwork with children who have special needs. It wont be easy, but its what I want to offer.

Mrs. Hudson nodded, her eyes unreadable, as though searching Emilys face for some hidden motive.

I dont expect Harry to support me, Emily ventured. I want to stand on my own feet, to build a partnershipwhere each of us brings what we can, and not just money. For me, work must mean something. Earning is important, but fulfilment matters, too.

Thats a curious approach, Mrs. Hudson replied, tilting her head, Have you not considered a more profitable field? With your poise, you could do wellin sales, perhaps, or marketing. Those posts pay quite handsomely, certainly better than teaching.

Harry looked set to step in but Emily held him back with a look. She sensed this was her battle to fight.

And may I askwhat did you do for a living? she asked, surprising herself with her boldness.

The question hung in the air, sharp and clean. Mrs. Hudson slightly stiffened, caught off guard, but quickly recovered.

I I never worked, she admitted after a pause. My husband took care of things. I managed the home, kept things in order, supported him. It may not pay, but its work nonetheless.

I see, Emily replied, her determination growing firmer. Then why do you think I must chase a better-paid position, if you yourself found fulfilment at home? Why must I turn from what I love, for the sake of a bigger salary, when Im not asking Harry to support me?

There was a silence, heavy and telling. Mrs. Hudson studied her as if seeing her anew.

My husband chose to support me. He was able, she said at length. But Harry

Harry shifted uncomfortably, anxiety twisting in his middle. His mothers face showed nothing, but he could sense her judgement, feel it directed at Emily, who sat straight-backed, chin high, though confusion darted in her eyes.

Emily, surely you see he started, at a loss. Mum only wants to spare us hardships. She means well. She wants the best for us.

Emily staredhurt, surprised. Moments before, Harry had been at her side, and now now he wavered, pulling away at the moment she needed him most.

Do you agree with her? Emily asked, keeping her voice even. Should I abandon what brings me meaning? Should I force myself to take a joyless job just for the pay?

Harry hesitated, twisting his fingers. Not agreeingjust I mean, Mums got a point about thinking ahead. About staying on steady ground. We cant just drift; lifes got real responsibilities, bills to pay

Mrs. Hudson rewarded him with the barest approving glance. Then, to Emily, in a softer, yet insistent tone:

Tell me, Emilydo you honestly believe my son should set aside his dream? Harrys always wanted to be a journalist, to travel, to write. That isnt merely a jobthats who he is. Are you asking him to forget that, to anchor the family?

Emily opened her mouth to respond, but Harry spoke first.

Mum, I

No, Harry, answer plainly, Mrs. Hudson cut in, gaze unwavering. Would you give up your dreams for this young woman? Would you sacrifice travelling, projects, writingeverything you lovefor the sake of a steady home?

Harry froze. He looked at Emilyhurt clouded her eyes, but she said nothing, leaving him alone with his dilemma. Two selves wrestled inside him: one eager to defend her, another afraid his mother was right, that dreams were, after all, indulgences best left behind.

I I dont want to walk away from my dreams. But I dont want to lose Emily, either. I think theres a waywe can compromise. Ill write, travel less if I must, but I need her beside me. And I hope I can support her, too, in what she loves.

Mrs. Hudson sighed, and with a small shake of the head, sank back in her armchair as if shed said all there was to say.

Thats an interesting double standard, Emily said suddenly, not bothering now to hide the disappointment in her voice. So Harry cant possibly give up his ambitions, but I must abandon mine for a practical job? That strikes me as unfair, dont you think?

Harry fixed his eyes on his teacup, his hands trembling. The china rattled minutely; he hoped no one noticed. Confusion whirled within himhe hadnt answers that would satisfy them all, least of all himself.

I suppose well just have to, somehow, jugglework something out he muttered, eyes on the swirling liquid, as if it might provide a solution.

Juggle? Mrs. Hudsons laugh was gentle, but the steel beneath it was clear. Harry, you know as well as I dothats a pipe dream. You throw yourself into real work, or you dont.

Her silence that followed was thick with lessons learned, certainty built on long years, and a withering scepticism for naïve hopes.

Harry swallowed. He wanted to argueinsist that modern couples found new balances, that compromise was possiblebut the words stuck. His mother had always mastered the art of shaming with a look, making him feel inexperienced, still a boy who knew nothing of the world.

Well, I think thats quite enough for today, declared Mrs. Hudson, rising as gracefully as she did all things. Its growing dark outside, and it really isnt safe to linger late in this neighbourhood. Time you headed home, Emily. Harry, you and I have much to discuss.

Her tone brooked no refusal. It was well short of suggestion.

Harry made a tentative attempt. Mum, perhaps I might walk Emily at least as far as the bus stop

Definitely not, his mother snapped without even turning. Id worry. Youre needed here.

Harrys shoulders drooped in defeat. It was pointless to argue. His mothers decisions were not for questioning.

Sorry, Emily, he murmured, eyes lowered. Perhaps its best Mums not left fretting. Ill stay. Would you call a cab?

Emily nodded without a word. She didnt insist, didnt challenge Mrs. Hudson. She placed her cup on the table, picked up her small handbag, and rose.

All right, she said coolly, holding back the tumult inside. Ill be on my way.

She stood, straightened her cardigan in a quiet gesture of resolve. The smile she offered them was gone; it felt wrong now, hollow. All she wanted was to be out of the flat, away from these rooms where every cushion and candlestick seemed to rebuff her.

Thank you for the tea, she said, the edge in her voice no longer hidden. This was mere courtesy now, a bit of punctuation at the end of a failed encounter.

Good night, replied Mrs. Hudson briefly, gaze already drifting elsewhere. To her, Emily was no longer guest nor person deserving of regard.

Emily walked to the front door. She moved slowly, but inside was tight with nerves. She glanced back onceHarry still sat, head bowed, hands idle on his knees. He didnt stand, didnt call after her, didnt even meet her eyes. That silence told Emily all she needed.

She stepped out into the cool dusk and drew a deep breath. The air washed some of the tension away, but couldnt ease the storm whirling insidehurt, anger, disappointment, all mushed together until she could hardly breathe. The truth was suddenly clear: Harry would always side with his mother, even at her expense.

Emily walked the pavement, first slowly, then quicker, as if trying to outpace her own thoughts. But they followed: He didnt even try to defend me. He never said he respected my choices. Pleasing his mother matters more than supporting me. Her fists curled in the pockets of her raincoat, her stride hastening with every step. She wanted to scream, but instead pressed her lips together so she wouldnt cry.

Home was a sanctuary, and she let herself in as the street lamps lit the glistening tarmacrain had come and gone. She locked the door, slipped off her shoes, and sat heavily on the hallway stool. Silence cocooned her, letting her drop the mask of composure at last.

She stared into space, feeling the storm ease. Her thinking grew clearer, less frantic. She realisedthis wasnt the end of the world. Just the end of something which perhaps was never meant to last. She breathed in, then out, more deeply. Tomorrow would come, and with it new possibility. She would copeshe was sure of it.

****************

The next day, Emily ignored Harrys calls. The phone buzzed and vibrated in her pocket; she glanced at the screen, put it away again, letting the silence be her answer. She needed to put her head in order, to think about her own needs. The same thoughts circled and circledeven if things patched up, would she forever be set against his mother? And Harry? Would he always be torn, never able to choose? She imagined it: every conversation, every choice, shadowed by Mrs. Hudsons opinion. The prospect felt bleak.

For several days, Emily kept her usual routinelectures, homework, quiet chats with classmates. It all felt mechanical, distant, as if she lived outside herself. She tried not to dwell on Harry, but her mind kept drifting back to those last momentsto his silence, to the way he failed to stand up for her.

A few days on, as she returned from university, Emily spotted a familiar figure outside her block of flats. She was about to slip inside unnoticed when she heard, Emily!

She turned. Harry stood at the entrance, hunched, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. Gone was the old spark of resolve; only uncertainty, and something like guilt. He approached, hesitating, as if frightened shed leave without a word.

We need to talk, he said, gazing off somewhere past her shoulder. Mum made it clear well, she says youre not right for me.

Emilys eyebrows arched, a knot tightening inside, but she mastered her composure.

And what do you think about that? she asked, her voice steady.

Harry shuffled, studying the ground, seeking the right words but finding none.

Shes my mum, he finally said, giving a hapless shrug. She just wants whats best for me. I cant upset her.

His explanation wasnt conviction, merely excuse. Emily studied him, wondering whether he truly agreed with his mother or simply lacked the courage to be honest.

So, you agree with her? she pressed, already suspecting the answer.

Im not saying I agreejust shes my family. I cant just cut her off.

He let the silence hang, as if waiting for Emily to forgive him, to find a way forward. She didnt rush. A thought struck her: would this never change? Would every big decision mean looking to his mother, always being second-best?

Do you want to be with me? she asked, meeting his eye.

Harry faltered, words lost before they left his lips. Shoulders slumped in resignation; he knew he couldnt promise what she wanted.

Emily nodded once, quietly affirming what shed suspected all along. That was enough. She wouldnt plead, wouldnt chase explanations. She turned and entered her building, leaving Harry standing alone on the pavement.

He stood watching her go, gripped by a strange emptiness. He thought of calling after her, but no words came. He just stood, clutching the hem of his jacket, uncertain if hed been right.

That evening, Emily slipped out for a walk. The road was quiet, touched by the golden haze of old streetlamps. She breathed the autumn aircrisp with leaves and rain and something wild and fresh. She wandered without plan, letting her feet choose the way.

Suddenly, she laughed. It was a light, careless sound, surprising even to herself. She paused and looked at the lamps twinkling in the distance, and realised: even if hardship lay ahead, she would meet it on her own terms. No more living up to someone elses notionsno more justifying her worth. She was free. That, above all, mattered most.