The air in the dim kitchen hung heavy as Eleanor sifted through a pile of bills, her fingers trembling slightly. Her husband, Gregory, had left for work hours ago, yet she couldnt bring herself to tidy the cluttered countertops. Her thoughts buzzed like agitated wasps, darting between worries. Lately, peace had abandoned their homeher youngest son, Oliver, and his fiancée, Beatrice, had become a constant source of tension.
Eleanor longed, just once, to live for herselfto redecorate the spare bedroom in soft creams and blues, to replace the tired furniture in the lounge with something fresh. Olivers wedding should have meant freedomhim and Beatrice moving out, leaving the three-bedroom house to her and Gregory. But life had other plans. Her eldest, Charlotte, had recently divorced her layabout husband, leaving her with two children, little Henry and Matilda. The grand renovation dreams were scrappedthe largest room went to Charlotte and the grandchildren instead.
Now, with Olivers wedding looming, the house felt like a pressure cooker. Beatrice had moved in months ago, and seven souls now squeezed into spaces meant for four.
The kitchen door creaked open. Beatrice glided in, her ponytail immaculate. “Morning, Eleanor,” she chirped, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “Are you having breakfast, or shall I sit alone? Wouldnt want to intrude.”
Eleanor bristled. Beatrice always addressed her so casually, never using “Mrs. Whitmore,” as if they were friends rather than soon-to-be family. The girl was entitled, sharp-tonguedeverything Eleanor wouldnt have chosen for her son. But Oliver adored her, so Eleanor bit her tongue.
“Ive eaten,” Eleanor replied coolly. “Give me five minutes. Then the kitchens yours.”
Beatrice filled a glass with water, then turned, her gaze calculating. “Eleanor, I wanted to askOliver and I were discussing where well live after the wedding. What do you think?”
Eleanor set the bills aside. There it wasthe unspoken demand theyd been circling for months.
“Weve spoken about this. The spare room is yours.”
Beatrices face twisted into what Eleanor had come to call her “patronising sneer.”
“Lets be honest, Eleanor. Youve made this home lovely. But its *your* home. You and Gregory lived here thirty years. And now, with Charlotte and the children its five people, not three. Oliver and I wont live under a microscope.”
“And where *do* you plan to live?” Eleanor snapped, irritation bubbling over. “You have no flat of your own. Renting is your only option.”
“Thats just it,” Beatrice purred, sliding into a chair. “Weve been thinking about *your* flatthe one-bedder you rent out. We could live there. Pay you, of course Or, better yet, you could gift it to us.”
Eleanor gave a bitter laugh.
“I have two children, Beatrice. Should I hand you a flat and leave Charlotte with nothing?”
“Charlotte could stay here,” Beatrice shrugged. “Three bedroomsyou and Gregory in one, Charlotte and the kids in another. Plenty of space.”
“Charlotte cant live here forever,” Eleanor hissed, fists clenched. “She needs her own life. And no, I wont *gift* you a flat. Youre young. You work. Earn your own place.”
“But that takes *years*!” Beatrice threw up her hands. “Oliver just got promoted, but even then, saving for a deposit will take five, six years! We want to live *now*!”
“Then why the lavish wedding?” Eleanors voice sharpened. “Why stretch for a horse-drawn carriage, doves, a hundred-guest reception if you cant afford a roof? A registry office and a savings account wouldve been wiser.”
Beatrices eyes flashed. “Thats *your* idea of a wedding. Ours is different. Its *our* day. I want my friends to see were not paupers. Must you be so cruel?”
“Im cruel?” Eleanor scoffed. “You want to show off while demanding *my* flat? Wise couples secure a home *before* marrying.”
Beatrice stormed out, leaving silence in her wake.
That evening, Oliver cornered Eleanor, parroting Beatrices wordsno doubt coached. He even dredged up their anniversary celebration as ammunition.
“You and Dad splurged on a fancy restaurant for your thirtieth. Couldve had a barbecue at the cottage! Those thousands wouldve been a deposit for us!”
Eleanor whirled on him.
“Youre lecturing *me*? You couldnt even save for a decent suit! We *bought* your wedding outfit! Covered seventy percent of your extravagant day, even took a loan! And you *dare* throw our anniversary in my face?”
“Dont shout at me!” Oliver snapped. “Im just claiming whats fair. Where am I supposed to take my wife? Some mouldy bedsit? *Mum*, Im asking you!”
“And Im asking why *her* parents wont house you! You demand I hand over my safety netthe flat I kept for *our* retirement!”
“Youve had your turn!” Oliver shouted. “Now let *us* live!”
“Charlotte has *children*,” Eleanor shot back. “She needs help more than you!”
Beatrice swept in, eyes gleaming. “Charlotte can lean on her exor *your* flat. Give us the one-bed, and well never ask for this house. Right, Ollie?”
The argument spiralled, voices clashing like cymbals. Oliver and Beatrice no longer masked their greedthey werent asking. They were *taking*.
***
A week before the wedding, an eerie calm settled over the house. Oliver and Beatrice were away visiting friends; Charlotte had taken the children to her cousins in Leeds. Eleanor and Gregory lounged before the telly when the doorbell rang.
Gregory answeredonly for a shriek to pierce the air.
“Greg, love! Ellie in? Let me through!”
Eleanors blood ran cold. Shed met Beatrices mother, Margaret, only thrice. Three times too many.
Margaret barrelled in, already kicking off her shoes. “Ellie, darling! We need to talk. Our Beas in bits over you!”
Eleanor folded her arms. “About what?”
Margaret smirked. “Dont play daft! Why wont you let the kids have that empty flat? Its just *sitting* there!”
Eleanors lip curled. “Why dont *you* buy them one?”
Margaret gasped. “Whered I get that sort of money? Were just scraping by! If *I* had a spare place, Id hand it over in a heartbeat!”
Gregory had heard enough. He yanked the door open. “Out. *Now*. Tell Beatrice the flats off the table. And Oliver can pack his things tonight.”
Margaret left, cursing. But the silence that followed was colder than any argument.
