“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed, stepping closer, invading her personal space. “Why didnt you let my sister in?”
Oliver didnt just walk into the flathe stormed in, dragging a gust of chilly autumn air and the sharp scent of irritation from the stairwell behind him. The key twisted aggressively in the lock, the door banged against the wall, and he froze on the threshold, still in his rain-dampened jacket.
His face, usually cheerful with a hint of laziness, was twisted with anger he made no effort to hide.
In the kitchen, perched on the small window-side sofa, sat Emily. She was reading.
The lamplight fell across her hair and the thick, hardback book in her hands. She didnt flinch at the noise, didnt look up. Only her finger, resting on the page, stilled.
She waited for him to repeat the question, louder this time, with poorly restrained fury.
“Emily, Im talking to you! Sophie called me, nearly in tears! She and her husband came round specially during their lunch break, starving, and you didnt even open the door! What was I supposed to say? That my wife decided to throw a tantrum?”
Only then did Emily slowly, reluctantly, tear herself from the book. She didnt close itjust slid a bookmark between the pages and set it beside her.
She looked up at him. Her gaze was clear, cold as a winter sky. No fear, no guilt, no pity. Just a heavy, exhausted calm.
“I heard the doorbell,” she said evenly. “And I saw through the peephole who it was. Thats why I didnt open it.”
Oliver hadnt expected that. Hed braced for excusesa headache, claims she hadnt heard. The blunt admission threw him. He took a few steps into the kitchen, muddy footprints trailing behind him.
“So you did it on purpose?” His voice dropped, which only made it angrier. “You saw it was my sister and deliberately left her standing there? What kind of stunt is that, Emily? Theyre used to having lunch here!”
He said it like it was an unshakable law of the universe. A tradition carved in stone.
*Used to.* The words hung in the air, thick with his outrage and her silent refusal.
To him, it was normalhis sister and her husband, who worked nearby, dropping in for lunch every other day. Convenient, economical, perfectly reasonable. It had never occurred to him to wonder where the food came from, who cooked it, who cleaned up after. It just *was*, like the sun rising.
Emily stood without a word. She was shorter than Oliver, slimmer, but in that moment, she seemed to fill the entire kitchen.
She leaned against the countertop, arms crossed, looking straight at himhis flushed face, the raindrops in his dark hair.
“*Used to*?” she repeated, softly.
It landed like a whip. No emotion, just fact.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him like an unfamiliar object.
“Time to get unused to it.”
Oliver froze. His brain refused to process it. This was outright rebellion. A violation of the unspoken contract hed assumed their marriage rested on.
The initial angersparked by Sophies complaintmorphed into something deeper, more personal. A sense that his territory, his rules, had been blatantly trespassed.
“Are you *mad*?” he hissed, stepping closer. “What right do you have to decide who comes into *my* home? Shes my *sister*! Theyre not here for you, theyre here for *me*! And as my wife, youre supposed to be *hospitable*! Its your *duty*!”
He was loud, filling the kitchen with indignation. Every word an accusation. He wasnt asking; he was declaring.
Painting a world with clear roles: him, the provider; her, the keeper of the home, ensuring comfort and hot meals for him and his family.
And now that world was cracking.
“Youve turned selfish, Emily! *Selfish*! What, you begrudge a plate of soup to my own flesh and blood? Do you have any idea how this looks? Theyll laugh at *me*! Say Ive become a pushover, that my wife dictates who I can see!”
Emily listened, expression unchanging. No flinching, no interrupting. Just that unnerving calm.
When he finally ran out of steam, breathing hard, she didnt engage. Instead, she did the last thing he expected.
Silently, she walked past him, opened a drawer, and pulled out a cheap calculatorthe kind she used for bills. Then a notepad and pen.
Oliver watched, baffled. Hed expected tears, shouting, *anything* but this methodical, businesslike motion.
She sat at the table, powered on the calculator. The button clicks were deafening in the quiet.
“Lets do the maths,” she said, voice flat as a newsreader. “Starting with groceries.”
“Meat, vegetables, staples. Feeding four adults costs…” Her fingers flew over the keys. “At current prices, roughly £15 a day. Just lunch. Multiply by twenty workdays. £300. Thats just the food, from our shared budget.”
Oliver stiffened, watching. He didnt see where this was going, but a chill crept up his spine.
“Now, my time,” she continued, jotting figures. “Shopping, cooking, serving, cleaning. At least two hours a day.”
“Private chefs charge, say, £20 an hour. Two hours daily is £40. Times twenty days. Another £300.”
She circled the total, turned the notepad to him.
“£600 a month. Thats the cost of your sisters *habit*. Split between two, £300 each. But since they dont come daily, well charge per visit.” She wrote at the top: *MENU*.
“From today, lunch or dinner for your family costs £12 per person. Per meal. Tell them. Payment upfront, by card.”
She set the pen down, met his eyes.
“Oh, and Ill invoice you for tonights dinner too. If were running a restaurant for your relatives, *everyone* pays. Or they eat elsewhere.”
She tore the page off, slid it toward him. He stared at the neat figures, the absurd, humiliating proposal, and realisedthis wasnt a joke.
It was a wall. Built of numbers and facts, against which his comfortable world had just shattered.
His free canteen for family was closed. Permanently.
Oliver crumpled the paper in his fist. Without a word, he turned and left. When he returned, phone in hand, he made no effort to lower his voice.
“Sophie? You wont believe what shes… No, shes *home*! Shes justshes lost it! Shes *charging* us! For your lunches!”
Pause. “Yes, *yes*, Im serious! £12 a head. Says were a restaurant now. I dont know whats got into her, I swear! Shes not herself!”
He listened, nodding at nothing, face darkening. He didnt repeat her arguments about cost and time. Just framed it as sudden, inexplicable greed.
Easier that way. Made *him* the victim.
The next day at noon, the doorbell rangnot a polite tap, but a long, demanding press. Emily, dusting the living room, set the cloth aside and answered. She knew who it was.
Sophie stood there, righteous fury in her cheeks. Beside her, her husband Mark loomed, scowling. Sophie didnt greet her.
“Im here to see my *brother*!” she snapped, trying to shoulder past.
Emily didnt move, just braced a hand on the doorframe, blocking her. “Hes busy.”
“Were not here to *disturb* him! Its *lunchtime*! Or have you forgotten people have *breaks*? Move!”
Another shove, met with steel.
Oliver appeared, looking torn. “Sophie, MarkEmily, come on, let them in, well talk”
“Nothing to talk about,” Emily cut in, eyes locked on Sophie. “We settled this yesterday.”
“*Settled*?” Sophie spluttered. “You call *this* settled? You *billed* my family like were somesome *customers*! Have you no shame? Were *family*!”
She was nearly shouting, voice echoing in the hall. Mark nodded grimly behind her.
“Are we? The kind that turns up at *my* house like a canteen, never even bringing biscuits for tea? The kind that thinks I *owe* them my time and money?”
A pause, letting it sink in. Oliver twitched, but Sophie barrelled on.
“How *dare* you! We come to see *him*, not *you*! Its his home too!”
And
