**Diary Entry – 15th June**
The guests arrived without warning. Margaret grimaced—she was overjoyed to see her son, but that *dragonfly* fluttering around Michael made her blood boil. The boy was besotted, grinning like a fool. Ugh.
“Mum, hello! We’ve come to visit—me and Emily,” he said brightly.
“Yes, I can see that,” Margaret replied, hugging him while forcing a tight smile.
“Mum… we’ve got happy news!”
“What sort?”
“We’ve put in the notice—ta-da!”
“Goodness, already? Isn’t it a bit soon?”
“Soon? Mum, what? We’ve been together a year. We’re getting married.”
“Well… if you’ve already done it, then you’ve done it. Make yourselves at home. I’ll pop to the shops, get something nice.”
Margaret needed air. To be alone. How had her little bear grown up, moved to London, built a life there—and now this?
“Mum, don’t fuss—we brought everything! Bags of food, treats, you name it.”
She sank into a chair, drained. The urge to cry, to curl up like a child and sob, nearly overwhelmed her. That *dragonfly*—her nasty little name for Emily—was all wrong for Michael. Too flighty. He needed a steady local girl.
What about Anne Cooper? Sensible, hardworking, trained as an accountant. Visited the library. They’d shared a school desk! If only he’d married her, they could’ve visited, brought grandchildren. The Coopers were good stock—salt of the earth. But no, he’d dragged home this city girl, strutting about as if she were some prize. Disgusting.
The young ones unpacked the food—posh hams, sausages, cheeses, exotic fruit. Margaret mechanically cleared the fridge. She’d have to cook, invite family and neighbours tomorrow. Tradition demanded it, though she wished the wedding would vanish.
Where was Jack? Still at work? Probably ate at the canteen—he preferred it there.
“Mum, we’re off to the lake!”
“Go on, then.”
The *lake*—ridiculous. If he’d come alone, he’d have helped his father in the garden. But with this princess? Off they went.
She bustled all day, summoning guests, scrubbing floors. Exhausted, she lay down for five minutes—only to wake to chaos.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“Mum, we’re setting dinner. Thought we’d help while you rested.”
“Dinner? Using the *good china*? The crystal glasses? Jack, say something!”
“‘Bout what? They’re right—that crockery’s gathering dust.”
“Have you lost your minds? My wedding crystal! The serving dishes!”
“Mum, what’s *actually* wrong? We’re having a nice family meal, and you’re crying over plates?”
Margaret waved them off, retreating to her room, heartbroken as that *dragonfly* hacked apart the fancy meats.
“Change and come to the table,” Michael called later.
She stepped out—good lord, the *new tablecloth*, the crystal goblets! Her wedding china, untouched for decades, now laid out. And Jack—wearing his *good shirt*? The one he’d worn *three times*? Madness.
“Margaret, love, go change. It’s a celebration.”
“Celebration?” she hissed. “What *daughter*?”
Jack slammed the table. “Enough! ‘Special occasion’—where d’you think it sits?” He thumped his throat. “You believe in it?”
“We live like paupers! Eating from chipped bowls, drinking from mugs while three full sets gather dust! This house is *ours*, Margaret. Michael’s got every right to use it!”
Stunned, she finally slipped into her best dress, gold earrings, stockings.
Aunt Louise dropped by, gaping. “Who died?”
“Shut your mouth! Sit down. My son and his *future daughter*—” She barely stopped herself from *dragonfly*.
The old woman squinted. “You sure you’re not drunk?”
“Eat, Louise. Try the salami—it’s from London.”
News spread. By evening, the house heaved with nosy neighbours, all stunned the Thompsons had cracked open their treasures.
“Proper whisky tastes better in crystal, eh, Linda?” Jack’s mate Peter grinned.
Linda blushed. “Don’t you dare, Pete—I’ll wallop you!”
The village revolted. Wives aired their good linens, polished silver. Even the old ladies rummaged through moth-chest trunks.
That night, Margaret sighed. “Jack… when *is* the ‘special occasion’? We live half-starved of beauty.”
“Now, love. Why wait?”
(Though, privately, she still thought—*best keep some things put away. Just in case.*)
Down the lane, Louise upended her own cupboards.
“Louise! Have you gone mad? Those lace sheets were your *mother’s*!”
“Exactly! Thirty years she’s been dead, and we’ve waited for ‘someday’? Move, or you’ll join her!”
Her husband, Mike, blinked at the embroidered pillowcases. “Look—your roosters! Remember stitching these?”
“Course I do. Fifty years ago. Nearly poked my fingers raw.”
He smiled. “Worth it, though.”
**Lesson:** Life’s too short for saving things. The ‘special occasion’ is today. Use the good china. Wear the fancy dress. Tomorrow isn’t promised.
