**Diary Entry 12th September**
The cottage stood among ancient apple trees, its sloping roof and carved wooden eaves weathered by years. It had been left to Olivia by her parents after her grandmother passed. Every corner held memories of her childhood, and now she lived here with her husband, Simon, for three years.
An autumn evening painted the sky crimson. On the veranda, Olivia set out teacups for supper. Through the open door, she heard her parents chattingPeter was telling his wife, Margaret, how hed picked the last tomatoes from the greenhouse.
“Margaret, we ought to dig up the carrots tomorrow,” he said, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Frostll be setting in soon.”
“Of course, Peter. Olivia, love, could you help us?” her mother asked.
Olivia nodded, pouring tea into the cups. Her parents had arrived at the start of summer and had been helping ever sinceher father mending fences, tending the garden, while her mother made jams from the raspberries and gooseberries theyd picked. The house brimmed with warmththe creak of floorboards, the scent of home baking, quiet conversations over supper.
Simon appeared at the door, shaking rain from his coat. He worked as an engineer in the city, commuting daily.
“Peter, hows the shed roof holding up?” he asked, taking a seat.
“Might need new boards. The old ones are rotten through,” Olivias father replied.
Simon sipped his tea in silence, nodding occasionally. Olivia noticed hed grown distant lately, frowning without reason. When her parents retired for the night, hed stay up late, flicking through channels.
“Something the matter?” she asked one evening, settling beside him on the sofa.
“Nothing,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the screen.
She didnt press. Men turned moody, especially in autumn. Perhaps he was just tired.
But days later, his behaviour shifted. When her father offered to help repair the garage, Simon refused sharply. At supper, he hardly spoke. Margaret asked if he was unwell, but Olivia brushed it off.
On Saturday morning, as her parents foraged for mushrooms, Simon approached her in the kitchen.
“Liv, we need to talk,” he said, sitting at the table.
She dried her hands and turned. His expression was grim.
“Mums turning sixty next month. She wants to celebrate herefamily, friends, the lot. You know how she loves hosting.”
Olivia nodded. Her mother-in-law adored entertainingevery holiday meant a houseful.
“What are you suggesting?”
Simon hesitated, then met her eyes.
“Your parents would need to leave. Just for the week. Mum wants to rearrange everything, decorate her way. Guests will stay over. There wont be room.”
Olivia froze. His words struck like a verdict.
“Leave? This is *their* home. Theyve every right to be here.”
“Its temporary! They could stay with your aunt or book a B&B. Its not like theyve no options.”
Olivia slowly hung the tea towel. Her thoughts tangled.
“Simon, are you serious? Throw them out for a *party*? Theyve done nothing but help uswithout them, wed never manage this place.”
He stood, stepping closer.
“Liv, understandMums dreamed of this. Shes worked her whole life. Familys coming from across the country. Your parentswhats a week away to them?”
Her voice hardened.
“My *parents*Peter and Margaretlive here because they *choose* to. No ones evicting them for a bloody birthday.”
Simons jaw twitched.
“Youre not listening. Mums already booked caterers, a band. Its too late to cancel.”
“Then she can host it at her flat or rent a hall.”
His face flushed.
“Listen, Liv! Enough! Mum *deserves* this. As for your parentsthey can sod off for the week!”
Olivia gaped. Shed never heard such venom from him.
“Say that again.”
“I mean it!” he snapped. “Mum worked her fingers to the bone. Shes earned a proper celebration. Your parents? Whatve *they* done? Live off your goodwill, scraping by on pensions!”
Heat flared in her cheeks.
“Get out.”
“What?”
“You heard me. If my parents arent welcome, neither are you.”
Simon slammed his fist on the table. A cup shattered.
“Fine! Celebrate without me then!”
The door crashed behind him. Tyres spat gravel as he sped off.
Her parents returned later, her father carrying a basket of mushrooms, her mother with rowan branches for the vase.
“Wheres Simon?” Margaret asked.
“Gone to his mothers.”
Her father studied her. “Everything alright, love?”
She forced a smile. “Just a row over the party. Nothing serious.”
That night, Olivia lay awake. Simons words echoed*sod off for the week*. How could he dismiss the people whod welcomed him, fed him, mended his home?
Peter had worked decades as a mechanic, Margaret as a nurse. Decent, humble folk. Never a burdenonly help.
And now her husband called them *freeloaders*.
At dawn, Simon returnedwith his mother in tow. Dressed smartly, she greeted Olivia with a strained smile.
“Liv, darling, lets talk properly.”
Over tea, the truth spilled.
“Well have thirty guests, a band, a three-course meal,” her mother-in-law said. “Its no place for *outsiders*.”
Olivias grip tightened on her cup.
“Outsiders?”
“Oh, you know what I mean! Just for the week! Well even pay for a seaside B&Btreat them!”
Her father set down his paper. “Margaret and I can stay with neighbours if were in the way.”
“No.” Olivias voice was steel. “This is *your* home.”
Simon stood, livid.
“Then well celebrate without you! Mums put too much into this!”
Margarets hands trembled as she cleared the table.
“Liv, love, we dont want trouble”
“Mum, stop. *Hes* the one causing it.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Then Simon stormed out, his mother trailing.
That evening, supper was quiet. Her parents spoke of apple-picking, jam-making, winter prepordinary, cherished things.
No shouting. No demands. Just love.
Simon didnt call.
Before bed, Olivia walked the house. Her mothers order, her fathers toolsproof of their care.
Simon had chosen. A party over family, his mothers whims over his wifes heart.
And she?
She chose *this*. The creak of floorboards, the scent of home, the people whod *earned* their place.
Some things mattered more than peace. Honour. Loyalty. Letting no onenot even a husbanddiminish that.
Tomorrow would bring apples, chores, shared labour.
And her parentsexactly where they belonged.
