**Diary Entry October 12th**
The argument still echoes in my mind. “Mum deserves to celebrate her anniversary at the cottage, but your parentsthey should just clear out for the week!” he snapped.
The countryside house, with its sloping roof and carved wooden trim, stood among old apple trees. It had been passed down to me from my parents after Grans passing. Every corner held memories of my childhood. Now, Id lived here with my husband, Simon, for three years.
An autumn evening painted the sky crimson. On the veranda, I set out teacups for supper. Through the open door, I caught my parents voicesDavid was telling Mum how hed picked the last of the greenhouse tomatoes.
“Margaret, we ought to dig up the carrots tomorrow,” Dad said, wiping his hands on a tea towel. “Frostll be setting in soon.”
“Of course, dear. Emily, will you lend a hand?” Mum called to me.
I nodded, pouring hot tea into cups. Theyd arrived at the start of summer and had been helping ever sinceDad fixed the fence and tended the garden, Mum made jam from the raspberries and gooseberries wed picked. The house had settled into its old rhythm: creaking floorboards, the scent of 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.
“David, hows the shed roof holding up?” he asked, taking a seat.
“Needs new boards, I reckon. The old ones are rotting through,” Dad replied.
Simon sipped his tea, nodding vaguely at Dads remarks. Lately, hed seemed distractedfrowning at nothing, flipping channels long after my parents had gone to bed.
“Is something wrong?” I asked one evening, sitting beside him on the sofa.
“Nothing,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the screen.
I didnt press. Men get like this sometimesespecially in autumn. Maybe he was just tired.
But a few days later, his mood turned sharp. When Dad offered to help fix the garage, Simon refused abruptly. Over dinner, he barely spoke. Mum asked if he was unwell, but I brushed it off.
Then, one Saturday morningafter my parents had left to forage for mushroomsSimon cornered me in the kitchen while I washed dishes.
“Emily, we need to talk.”
I dried my hands and turned. His expression was grim.
“Mums turning sixty soon. She wants to host the party herefamily, friends, the whole lot. You know how she loves entertaining.”
I nodded. His mother, Patricia, adored hosting. Every holiday, her flat was packed.
“What are you suggesting?”
He hesitated, then met my eyes.
“Your parents would need to leave. Just for the week. Mum wants to redecorate, rearrange things. Guests will be staying overthere wont be space otherwise.”
I froze, the tea towel still in my hands.
“Leave? This is their home.”
“Its not forever! They could stay with your aunt or book a B&B. Mums planned everythingcatering, musicians. Its too late to cancel.”
“Then she can host it in her flat or rent a hall,” I said, crossing my arms.
Simons face reddened. “For Gods sake, Emily! Mums worked hard all her life. She deserves this. Your parentswhat have they ever achieved? Living off your generosity, scraping by on pensions”
The words hit like a slap. “Say that again.”
“My mother deserves a proper celebration. Yours can sod off for a week!”
Silence rang between us. My hands shook, but my voice stayed steady.
“Theyre staying. If Patricia needs a venue, shell have to find one.”
Simon slammed his fist on the table. A cup shattered.
“Youre being selfish! After everything Mums done”
“Selfish?” I bent to pick up the pieces. “This is about basic respect.”
He stormed out. The car screeched down the gravel drive.
Half an hour later, my parents returnedDad with a basket of mushrooms, Mum clutching a sprig of rowan berries.
“Wheres Simon?” Mum asked, glancing at the empty drive.
“Gone to his mothers.”
Dad studied me. “Everything alright, love?”
I lied. “Just birthday planning.”
Upstairs, I replayed Simons words. My parentsDad a retired mechanic, Mum a nursehad never been a burden. Theyd raised me, supported me, and now they fixed roofs, dug vegetables, kept this place running.
Simon wanted them gonefor Patricia, whod never lifted a finger to help us.
His text buzzed: *Think it over. Mums upset.*
I deleted it. Some lines shouldnt be crossed.
At dinner, Dad suggested making peace. “Dont lose a husband over us.”
“If hed leave me for defending my family,” I said, “he wasnt worth keeping.”
The house settled into quietapple-picking plans, jam-making, the rustle of leaves outside my window. Simon had chosen his side.
And Id chosen mine. A home isnt just wallsits where we honour those who belong. No party, no pride, is worth betraying that.
