**Diary Entry The Unwelcome Guests**
I couldnt believe my ears when Tom stretched out lazily on the deck chair and said, *”Lisa, we wont take much. Just pack us some of your famous pie and a couple of jars of jam for the road.”* His smile was effortless, as if the request were perfectly reasonable.
I stared at him, stunned by the sheer audacity. How could he ask so shamelessly?
My mind raced with memories of the effort Id poured into that piethe perfect crust, the careful fillingand the hours spent scrubbing the cottage spotless before their arrival. And now here was Tom, who hadnt lifted a finger all week, lounging in the shade and demanding treats to take home.
I glanced at Edward, my husband, who seemed oblivious to his brothers behaviour.
*”Tom, dont you think thats a bit much?”* I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.
*”Oh, come off it, Lisa!”* He waved a hand dismissively. *”Were family, arent we? Youve got loads here!”*
A slow, simmering resentment tightened in my chest.
This little lakeside cottage, bought three years ago, had become our sanctuary. Summers here were anything but lazyearly mornings, weeding, berry picking, tending the chickens, stocking the pantry. Every helping hand was worth its weight in gold.
And thats why Toms demand felt like a slap. He hadnt noticedor didnt care tothe work behind it all. To him, this place was just a free holiday, and Edward and I were the staff.
—
It had all started three weeks ago when Tom called, announcing theyd *”drop by to help out and enjoy the countryside.”*
The words had taken me aback. Tom and his wife, Victoria, were city people through and throughcocktail parties, brunches, shopping sprees.
*”Help out?”* Id echoed doubtfully.
But Tom had barrelled on, *”Of course! Were family! Fresh air will do us good. Ive been meaning to pick raspberries, maybe get the barbecue going…”*
After hanging up, I sat on the porch, absently smoothing my apron. I knew Toms promisesplenty of talk, little action. But Edward had been hopeful.
*”Maybe theyll actually pick some berries. Tom might even lend a hand with the fence.”*
The following days were a flurry of preparation, as if royalty were coming. Fresh linens, spotless towels, a trip into town for groceriessteak for the barbecue, fresh fish, desserts.
*”Maybe itll be fine,”* I told myself, hanging the towels. *”If they help even a little, itll be something.”*
When they finally arrived, I forced a smile, masking my doubts.
Tom and Victoria looked relaxed, as if theyd just stepped off a cruise.
*”Here we are!”* Tom announced, arms spread wide.
I ushered them to the table on the veranda, where salad, warm scones, and homemade lemonade waited.
For the first half-hour, the chatter was pleasantcatching up, exchanging news. Then Edward carefully outlined the weeks tasks.
*”Well start with mowing the meadow tomorrow, then move on to the berries. Plenty to do, but well manage together.”*
*”Yes, of course!”* Victoria nodded, but her eyes flickered with confusion, as if *”mowing the meadow”* belonged to some alien world.
That look sent a prick of dread through me.
—
The first day passed like a holiday. I ignored the overgrown strawberries, the weedy vegetable patch, the apples waiting to be jarred.
Tom was in his elementjokes, beer in hand, boasting about *”escaping the city grind.”* Victoria posed for endless sunset selfies by the lake.
Edward smiled, glad his brother had finally visited, hopeful the work would go faster.
But by the next morning, reality set in.
I rose at dawn to the roosters crow, pulled on my wellies, and stepped outside. Dew shimmered on the grass; the air smelled of hay and damp earth. The chickens clucked impatiently.
As I scooped grain into the feeder, I glanced at the guest room windowdrawn curtains, silence.
By eight, Id fed the chickens, picked a bucket of cucumbers, and hauled water for the garden. Edward emerged with tea, shrugging.
*”Tom and Victoria drove into town. Urgent errands, apparently.”*
I nodded, though the words stung. Id hoped theyd at least help after breakfast.
They didnt return until evening, laden with crisps, fizzy drinks, and beer, as if theyd conquered some great quest.
*”Lisa, this place is like a spa!”* Tom declared, flopping into a chair. *”Everything just runs itself!”*
By the next day, irritation gnawed at me. I mowed alone, hauled water, scrubbed floors, cooked meals.
Tom swayed in the hammock, scrolling on his phone, complaining of a headache.
*”Think Ive caught a chill. Best take it easy today.”*
Victoria sprawled on a sun lounger, captioning selfies: *”#CountryLife #BlissfulRetreat.”*
Each day, exhaustion deepened. I rose at five, collapsed past midnight, washing dishes, cleaning up after *”guests”* who treated labour as beneath them.
*”We came to *visit*,”* Victoria said, affronted when I asked for help clearing plates. *”Since when do guests work?”*
My smile grew brittle. Every request from them chipped away at my patience.
—
On the fifth day, I snapped.
All morning, Id weeded the vegetable patch, hauled water, while laughter drifted from the veranda where Victoria lounged.
When Edward returned from the field, sweaty and dust-streaked, I met him with a hardened gaze.
*”I cant do this anymore. They wont even wash a plate. Today, Tom asked me to iron his shirt, and Victoria called breakfast a bit plain.”*
Edward nodded. That evening, they broached the subjectTom would *finally* help repair the fence; Victoria would weed the strawberries.
But when Edward knocked at their door the next morning, silence. A note lay on the nightstand:
*”Gone into townback by evening! BBQ tonight! “*
They returned at dusk, arms full of steak, beer, and pretzels, laughing about *”dreadful traffic.”*
*”We agreed on work today,”* I said flatly.
Tom waved a hand. *”Tomorrow, promise!”*
But the next morning, he announced, *”Weve got to dash. Shame we couldnt help!”*
Then, grinning: *”Oh, Lisapack us some of that famous pie and raspberry jam. Its divine!”*
Something in me boiled over.
*”No.”* My voice shook. *”Youve done nothing all week.”*
Tom gaped. *”What happened to hospitality?”*
*”What hospitality? You treated this place like a hotel!”*
Edward, usually peacekeeping, stepped forward. *”You offered to help, Tom. Instead, you ate, drank, and complained.”*
*”Were *family*!”* Tom spat. *”Youre shaming us over a few meals?”*
Victoria stormed to the car, slamming the door. *”Lets go, Tom! They dont appreciate us!”*
Toms face darkened. *”Keep your bloody pies!”* he snarled before peeling away.
—
Relief settled over us, though the air still hummed with tension.
*”Lesson learned,”* Edward sighed. *”No more freeloaders.”*
That evening, we walked the propertyfence still broken, strawberries weedy, meadow half-mown.
Yet the exhaustion felt different. Better to tire from honest work than from others entitlement.
We lit the fire pit, sipped tea with *that* raspberry jam, and watched the lake darken.
*”Next time,”* I said, *”guests bring wellies, not just wine.”*
Edward laughed, and for the first time in days, the cottage felt like ours again.
