**Diary Entry 15th September**
My mother deserves to celebrate her anniversary at the cottage, but your shabby parents can clear out for the time being! snapped my husband.
The country house, with its sloping roof and carved eaves, stood among old apple trees. It had been passed down to Emily by her parents after her grandmothers passing. Her childhood had unfolded here, every corner steeped in memory. Now, she and her husband, Robert, had lived here for three years.
An evening in September painted the sky crimson. On the veranda, Emily laid out teacups for supper. Through the open door drifted the voices of her parentsPeter was telling his wife how hed picked the last tomatoes from the greenhouse.
Margaret, we ought to dig up the carrots tomorrow, her father said, drying his hands on a tea towel. Frostll be setting in soon.
Aye, Peter. Emily, love, will you lend us a hand? her mother asked.
Emily nodded, pouring hot tea into the cups. Her parents had arrived at the start of summer, helping with chores ever sinceher father mending fences and tending the garden, her mother making jam from the raspberries and gooseberries theyd harvested. The house brimmed with warmth: creaking floorboards, the scent of fresh baking, quiet conversations over supper.
Robert appeared in the doorway, shaking rainwater 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.
Needs new boards, I reckon. The old ones are rotten through, Emilys father replied.
Robert sipped his tea in silence, occasionally nodding at his father-in-laws remarks. Emily noticed hed grown distant lately, scowling at nothing. After her parents retired, hed linger by the telly, flipping channels.
Is something wrong? she asked one evening, settling beside him.
Nothing, he muttered, eyes fixed on the screen.
Emily let it be. Men turned moody, especially in autumn. Perhaps he was tired.
But days later, Roberts temper flared. When her father offered to help repair the garage, he refused sharply. At supper, he answered in monosyllables. Margaret asked if he was ill, but Emily reassured her.
That Saturday, as her parents foraged for mushrooms, Robert cornered her in the kitchen.
Emily, we need to talk, he said, sitting stiffly. His face was grim.
Mums turning sixty soon. Wants to celebrate hererelatives, friends, the lot. You know how she loves hosting.
Emily nodded. Her mother-in-law, Patricia, adored entertaining, cooking for days before gatherings.
And?
Robert hesitated, then met her eyes.
Your parents will have to leave. Just for a week. Mum wants to rearrange things. There wont be space.
Emily froze. His words were a sentence.
Leave? Where? This is *their* home.
Not forever! They could stay with your aunt or book a B&B. Its just a few days.
Emily hung the tea towel slowly, thoughts jumbled.
Robert, youre serious? Throw them out for a party? Theyve done nothing but help us!
He stood, stepping closer.
Mums dreamed of this for years. Familys coming from across the country. Cant you understand?
My parents *live* here. Theyre not leaving.
Roberts jaw twitched.
Shes already booked caterers, a band. Its too late to cancel.
Then she can hire a hall.
His face reddened.
Listen, Emily! Mums earned this. Your parents can damn well make themselves scarce!
Emily gaped.
What did you just say?
Patricia worked her fingers to the bone for us. And yours? Living off you, contributing nothing!
Emilys hands shook, but her voice stayed steady.
Theyre staying. If your mother wants a party, shell find another venue.
Robert slammed the table. A cup shattered.
Youre being selfish! After everything Mums done
Selfish? Emily bent to collect the shards. This is about respect.
And what about respect for *me*? he shouted, pacing.
She straightened, porcelain fragments in her palms.
I wont throw them out. Not for you, not for anyone.
Robert glared.
Fine. Celebrate without us! He stormed out, tires screeching on gravel.
Her parents returned to find her clutching the broken cup.
Wheres Robert? her father asked gently.
Gone to his mothers.
Peter studied her. Something happen, love?
Nothing, Dad. She forced a smile. Patricias planning a birthday do.
Margaret nodded. At her age, milestones matter. We ought to get her a gift.
Alone in her room, Emily replayed his words: *Your shabby parents*. How could he? After theyd fed him, cared for this house while he lazed about.
Peter had worked decades as a mechanic, Margaret as a nurse. Proud, humble people. Never a burdenonly a help.
Now Robert called them freeloaders.
She watched through the window as her father stacked firewood, her mother hanging laundry. This was home. Not some stage for Patricias theatrics.
At supper, Emily set the table outdoors. Homemade sausage, pickles from Margarets pantry, potatoes from their garden. No calls from Robert.
Her father sighed. Maybe you should patch things up?
If hed cast out family for a party, hes no loss.
They spoke of tomorrowapples to pick, roses to mulch. Real happiness, she realized, wasnt in raucous gatherings but in shared silence, mutual care.
That night, as wind rustled the trees, Emily made peace with her choice. A house was more than wallsit was where love held sway. And no one, not even Robert, could uproot that.
**Lesson:** Principles outlast tempers. Hold fast to whats right, even when it costs you.