The in-laws came for the weekend.
“Mum, have you lost your mind? What in-laws?” Emma shrieked into the phone, nearly dropping it. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Tom and I are just dating!”
“And what, dating means it’s not serious?” Her mother’s voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. “Emma, you’re twenty-seven! Girls your age are married with children, and you’re still playing games! His parents are lovely, hard-working people—they’ve got a three-bedroom in Chelmsford…”
“Mum!” Emma squeezed her eyes shut, fighting off a headache. “Listen to me carefully. I am NOT ready to get married. I do NOT want to discuss this with strangers. And above all, you should have talked to me first!”
“Too late for that now,” her mother snapped. “I’ve already called them; they’re coming tomorrow morning. Tom knows, by the way. I spoke to him yesterday. He agreed.”
Emma sank onto the sofa. Tom had agreed… Of course he had. What did he have to lose? Living comfortably in his parents’ home, working odd shifts, and now this—a ready-made bride with her own flat and a decent salary.
“Mum, can’t we just say I’m ill?”
“Emma, love,” her mother’s voice softened suddenly, almost pleading. “Try to understand, darling. I want grandchildren! What if something happens to me, and you’re left alone? Tom’s a good lad—doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke…”
“Doesn’t drink?” Emma scoffed. “He was barely upright two nights ago!”
“Well, it was a special occasion!” her mother shot back. “Fine, sweetheart, be here by ten. I’ve bought a chicken, and I’ll order a cake…”
The line went dead. Emma sat frozen for a minute before jumping up and pacing the room. She had to do something—but what? Strangle Tom? Her mother? Or maybe bolt to her mate’s place in the Cotswolds and hide until Monday?
The phone rang again.
“Emma, it’s me,” Tom’s voice was sheepish. “Listen, your mum rang me yesterday…”
“You absolute git!” she hissed. “You could’ve warned me!”
“I thought she was joking! Honestly! Who arranges marriages through parents these days? I figured she’d drop it…”
“And when did you realise she wasn’t joking?”
“When my parents started picking out cakes,” he admitted. “Em, why don’t we just play along? Chat, have tea, let them get it out of their systems…”
“Tom, do you *realise* my mother will march me down the aisle at gunpoint after this circus? She’s probably already shopping for a dress!”
“So what?” His tone shifted, something unreadable in it. “Am I not good enough for you?”
Emma went silent. There it was—the real problem. She *did* like Tom. Quite a lot, actually. Tall, funny, good-hearted. But there was something… missing. He never made decisions on his own. Always checked with his mum, even about which shirt to wear on a date. And now, even this—the wedding wasn’t his idea.
“Tom,” she said carefully, “do *you* actually want to marry me?”
“Of course!” he said too quickly. “I mean… in principle… we know each other well…”
“That’s not an answer,” she sighed. “Fine. See you tomorrow.”
The rest of the evening was spent frantically trying on dresses—too fancy and they’d assume she was keen; too plain and her mum would lecture her for weeks. She settled on a grey trouser suit—smart but neutral.
By morning, Emma was resolved to cancel. She’d call in sick, claim a work emergency—but her phone stayed silent. Her mother didn’t pick up, likely already at the market, stocking up on fancy nibbles.
At half nine, Emma stood outside her parents’ house, frozen. Mrs. Wilkins from next door was watering her geraniums, peering down curiously.
“Emma, love!” her mother called from the doorway. “Stop dawdling!”
Inside, her mum greeted her in her best apron, conspiratorial glee in her eyes. “Good, you’re early! Help me set the table. Look, I got smoked salmon for the starter! And I splurged on caviar—not the proper stuff, but it’ll do…”
“Mum—” Emma tried to interject, but her mother was already dragging her to the kitchen.
“Love the suit! Very professional. Tom’s parents appreciate a modest girl…”
“How would you know what they like?”
“We’ve met!” her mother said proudly. “Ran into them at the GP’s when I was fetching Tom’s prescription. Margaret, his mum—such a lovely woman! We talked for ages; she told me all about you…”
“About *me*?”
“That you’re pretty, hard-working, own your flat… They’re *thrilled* Tom’s landed such a catch!”
Emma felt her blood boil. So she was already being discussed as a bride—and no one had asked her.
“Mum,” she gripped her mother’s shoulders. “I am *not* ready to get married. Do you hear me? I don’t want to!”
“You don’t?” Her mother frowned. “Then why are you leading the lad on? That’s not right, Emma! Either let him go or put a ring on it!”
“We’re *dating*! Getting to know each other! What if we’re not even right for each other?”
“Six months is long enough to know!” Her mother waved her hands. “In my day, people decided in weeks! You’re dragging your feet…”
The doorbell cut her off. Her mum ditched the apron, fluffed her hair, and sailed to the door. Emma stayed behind, gripping the counter.
“Come in, come in!” her mother trilled. “And here’s our bride!”
Tom and his parents filed in. His dad, Richard—a solid bloke with kind eyes—looked awkward. Margaret, however, assessed Emma like a shop display.
“Here she is!” her mother announced. “Though you’ve met, of course…”
“Hello,” Emma mumbled, feeling like livestock at auction.
Tom looked just as uncomfortable, hovering behind his parents with a guilty smile.
“Let’s not stand about!” Emma’s mum clapped her hands. “Tea’s on—oh, but first, Margaret wanted a word…”
The group settled in the lounge. Margaret sat opposite Emma, her gaze sharp.
“Emma, do you actually *want* to marry our Tom?” she asked bluntly.
Emma blinked. Of all the things she’d expected, this wasn’t it.
“I… we…”
“Margaret!” her mother cut in. “Of course she does! They’ve been together *six months*!”
“That’s not an answer,” Margaret said coolly. “Dating and marrying are different. I’m asking the girl.”
Emma exhaled. *This* woman wasn’t a fool.
“Truthfully? I don’t know. We’ve never talked marriage. Until yesterday.”
Margaret wheeled on Emma’s mum. “You told me it was *settled*!”
“Well… I *thought*…” her mother floundered.
“Maybe Emma and I should talk alone?” Tom suggested.
“Sensible!” Richard boomed. “Let the youngsters sort it. We’ll have tea.”
Outside, they walked in silence for five minutes. Tom fidgeted; Emma chewed her lip.
“Em,” he finally said, “I didn’t sleep last night. Been thinking.”
“And?”
“We’ve never actually talked about marriage. And it’s rotten, all this—parents swooping in like we’re kids.”
Emma stopped walking. “Tom, *do* you want to marry me? Honestly?”
“I do,” he said quietly. “But… I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“That you’ll say no. That I’m not good enough. You’re so… *you*. And I’m just…”
“Just what?”
“A bloke who clocks in, watches telly. Bit dull, really.”
Emma laughed unexpectedly.
“You *plonker*. Since when is dull bad? You’re kind. Steady. I feel *safe* with you. That’s worth more than flashy.”
“Then… will you marry me?” He took her hands.
“Is this *you* asking? Not your mum, not mine—you?”
“Me,” he said firmly. “Emma, marry me. I’ll be good to you. Promise.”
She searched his earnest face and realised she already knew her answer. No, he wasn’t Prince Charming. But he was *real*. And he loved her, in his way.
“Yes,” she said. “But not tomorrow, like they’re planning. Let’s do it properly—rings, a nice venue…”
“And our mums?” he asked nervously.
“We’ll say yes. It’ll keep them off our backs.”
Back home, theThey walked back inside hand in hand, ready to face their parents with the one thing they hadn’t had before—a decision made just for themselves.
