“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed, stepping closer, invading her personal space. “Why did you turn my sister away?”
Liam didnt just enter the flathe stormed in, bringing with him a gust of chilly autumn air from the stairwell and the sharp scent of his irritation.
The key turned aggressively in the lock, the door slammed against the wall, and he froze on the threshold, still in his rain-drenched jacket. His usually easygoing face was twisted with anger he made no effort to hide.
In the kitchen, on the small sofa by the window, sat Emily. She was reading. The lamplight fell on her hair and the thick hardback in her hands. She didnt flinch at the noise, didnt look up. Only her finger, resting on the page, stilled.
She waited until he repeated his question, louder this time, with poorly restrained fury.
“Emily, Im talking to you! Sophie called me, nearly in tears. Her and her husband came all the way here during their lunch break, hungry, 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, almost reluctantly, look up from her book. She didnt close itjust slipped a slender bookmark inside and set it beside her.
Her gaze was clear, cold as a winter sky. No fear, no guilt, no pity. Just calm, heavy exhaustion.
“I heard the doorbell,” she said evenly. “And I saw who it was through the peephole. Thats why I didnt open it.”
Liam hadnt expected that. Hed braced for excusesa headache, claims she hadnt heard. Her blunt admission threw him off balance. He took a few steps into the kitchen, his shoes leaving damp prints on the clean floor.
“So you did it on purpose?” His voice dropped, making it even harsher. “You saw my sister and deliberately left her standing outside? Whats your game, Emily? They always come here for lunch!”
The last words were delivered like an unshakable law of the universe. A tradition carved in stone.
*Always.* The word hung in the air, thick with his righteous anger and her silent refusal.
To him, it was perfectly normalhis sister and her husband, working nearby, dropping in for lunch every day. It was convenient, economical, and, in his mind, completely reasonable. Hed never once considered where the food came from, who cooked it, or who cleaned up afterward. It simply existed, like the sun rising.
Emily stood without a word. She was shorter than Liam, slimmer, but in that moment, she seemed to fill the entire kitchen.
She walked to the counter, resting her hands on its cool edge. Her eyes locked onto his flushed face, the raindrops still clinging to his dark hair.
“*Always?*” she repeated softly.
The word struck like a whip. No emotion, just cold, undeniable fact.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a strange object.
“Time to break the habit.”
For a second, Liam froze, his brain refusing to process what hed just heard. This was outright rebellion. A violation of the unspoken agreement hed assumed their marriage was built on.
His initial angersparked by Sophies complaintshifted into something deeper, more personal. The feeling that his territory, his rules, had been challenged in the most brazen way.
“Are you serious?” he hissed, stepping forward again, crowding her. “Who gave you the right to decide who comes into *my* home? Shes my sistermy own flesh and blood! They dont come for *you*, they come for *me*! And as my wife, youre supposed to be welcoming. Thats your *job*!”
His voice filled the kitchen, every word an accusation. He wasnt askinghe was declaring. Painting a world with clear roles: him, the provider; her, the homemaker ensuring comfort and hot meals for him and his family.
And now that world was crumbling.
“Youve become selfish, Emily! A miser! You begrudge a plate of food to my own family? Do you have any idea how this looks? Theyll laugh at me! Say Ive been whipped, that my wife dictates who I can see!”
Emily listened without reacting. She didnt look away, didnt interrupt. She just watched him, and in her calmness, there was something terrifying.
She let him finish, let him empty all the venom hed built up during that short phone call with Sophie.
When he finally fell silent, breathing hard, she didnt argue. Instead, she did the last thing he expected.
She walked past him, opened the kitchen drawer, and pulled out the cheap calculator she used for bills. Then a notepad and a biro.
Liam stared, baffled. Hed expected tears, shouting, anything but this cold, businesslike efficiency.
Emily sat at the table, flipped open the notepad, and clicked the calculator on. The dry tapping of buttons was deafening in the quiet kitchen.
“Lets do the maths,” she said, her tone as neutral as a newsreader. “Starting with groceries.”
“Meat, veg, pasta, bread, butter. To feed four adults lunch costs” Her fingers flew over the keys. “At todays prices, roughly twenty pounds a day. Just lunch. Times twenty workdays. Four hundred quid. Thats just the food, paid for from *our* shared budget.”
Liam went still, watching her. He didnt understand where this was going, but a chill ran down his spine.
“Now my time,” she continued, jotting numbers down. “Shopping, cooking for four, serving, then washing up and cleaning. Thats at least two hours a day.”
“A chef and cleaner in our area charge lets say fifteen an hour. Two hours a day is thirty. Times twenty days. Another six hundred.”
She circled the total, then turned the notepad toward him.
“All in, a thousand pounds a month. Thats the bare minimum cost of your sisters *habit*. Since theres two of them, split it. Five hundred per person.”
“But since they dont come every day, well charge per visit.” She picked up the pen and wrote in bold letters at the top: *MENU*. “Look.”
“From today, lunch or dinner for your relatives costs fifty pounds. Per person. Per meal. Tell them. Payment upfront, by card.”
She set the pen down and met his eyes.
“Oh, and Ill invoice you for tonights dinner too. If were running a restaurant for your family, *everyone* pays. Or they can eat elsewhere.”
She tore the page out and slid it across the table. Liam stared at the neat figures, at this absurd, humiliating demand, and realisedshe wasnt joking.
This was a wall. Built of numbers and facts, against which his comfortable world had just shattered.
His familys free canteen was closed. For good.
Liam read the word *MENU* again and again, searching for hidden meaning. There was none.
This was a declaration of warcold, calculated, and brutal. He crumpled the paper in his fist, the tight ball pressing into his palm like a stone.
Without a word, he turned and left the kitchen. When he returned, his phone was in his hand.
He spoke loudly, making sure Emily heard.
“Soph? Hi. You wont believe what shes No, shes *here*! She justshes lost it. She gave me a *bill*! For your lunches!”
“Yeah, *fifty quid* per person. Says were a restaurant now. I dont know whats got into her, I swear!”
He listened, nodding at nothing, his face darkening. He didnt repeat Emilys arguments about cost or time. He made it sound like shed snapped overnight, gone mad with greed.
Easier that way. Easier to play the victim than admit hed let his wife be used for years.
The next day, at noon sharp, the doorbell rangnot a polite tap, but a long, demanding buzz.
Emily, dusting the living room, set the cloth down and went to answer. She knew who it was.
Sophie stood on the doorstep. Beside her, silent and looming, was her husband Mark, a broad man with a permanent scowl. Sophie was righteous fury incarnatecheeks flushed, eyes blazing. She didnt bother with greetings.
“Im here to see my brother!” she snapped, trying to push past.
Emily didnt move. She simply rested a hand on the doorframe, blocking the way. The motion was calm, final.
“Hes busy,” she said, just as evenly.
“Were not here to chat! Were here for lunch! Or have you forgotten people have *lunch breaks*? Move!”
Another shove, met with steel.
Liam appeared then, looking torn. “Soph, Mark Em, come on, just let them in. Well talk.”
“
