“Oliver, they’re my parents! How could you even think of throwing them out?” my husband snapped.
“This is my home,” I shot back. “And they spoke to me like I was some kind of maid.”
“Is that your idea of hospitality? They traveled across London, they were tired, and you couldn’t even—”
“I didn’t invite them! And they knew you wouldn’t be home. Why show up at all?”
“Are you saying you can’t host them without me around?”
“I did host them. But your mum threw a tantrum because all I had was English Breakfast tea!”
“She prefers Earl Grey. The shop’s just down the road—how hard would it have been to grab some?”
“I did! And when I brought it back, she said I bought the wrong one! I remembered exactly what she asked for, Oliver—I don’t even drink Earl Grey!”
“Even if she got the name wrong, you could’ve asked her to write it down and gone back. They don’t visit that often, you know—this is only their second time since we got married.”
“I tried, Oliver. But it wasn’t just about the tea. Your dad said he was starving and demanded I make dinner. I’d already cooked, but they turned their noses up.”
“What exactly were they expecting?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
I handed him a piece of paper—his father’s handwriting, a whole list of dishes.
Oliver let out a low whistle. “You’re kidding. And you… made this?”
“Of course not. I’m not a professional chef—I cook normal food.”
He started pacing. “Mum said you were rude and kicked them out. You didn’t send them packing just because of a menu, right?”
“No. After the food thing, they drank their tea, and your mum started talking about renovations.”
“Yeah, they’ve been redoing their place. What about it?”
“She said since I ‘don’t do anything important’ all day, I should come help.”
“Maybe she just meant for you to help pick out colours or something. Didn’t you study interior design?”
“Exactly. And I offered to help—for free. I told them I could create a whole concept tailored to their taste.”
“So what happened?”
I sighed, dropping my head into my hands. The memory still stung.
“‘Interior designer?’” Margaret scoffed.
Robert snorted. I tried to stay calm.
“Yes, I graduated from a proper design school. I can plan layouts, colour palettes, furniture…”
I was hopeful then—maybe this would be a way to bond.
“Design school, hmm?” Margaret sneered.
“So, not a real degree, then?”
“It is real. Accredited. I graduated top of my class.”
“Everyone in our family has a university degree,” Margaret announced proudly.
“Robert, James, Victoria… and Oliver studied abroad, you know.”
“Vocational degrees are careers too. Not everyone needs uni. I might’ve gone later, but then I married—”
“And now you’ll stay a nobody,” she cut in.
The air felt razor-sharp.
“I am somebody. I work. I help cover our bills—”
“Hear that, Robert? She contributes!” Margaret cackled.
“And can’t even host guests properly,” Robert muttered.
**”I can cook! My mum taught me—” I paused. “And even if I did use ready meals, so what?”
“‘Ready meals,’” Margaret scoffed. “Where did Oliver find you?”
“I’m not some stray cat,” I said coldly. “We met at Heathrow. You know that.”
“It was a rhetorical question,” she said condescendingly. “A proper education would’ve helped you catch that.”
“If that’s what a degree teaches—condescension—I’m glad I skipped it.”
“It teaches people not to waste time on fools,” she smiled tightly.
I bit my tongue, trying to stay composed.
“Anyway, about the renovation—”
“Happy to advise,” I interrupted. “Professionally.”
“Advise?” Margaret laughed. “We take advice from graduates.”
“Then why ask me?”
“We need someone to clean up. Mop, sweep. That sort of thing.”
“So… a cleaner?”
“Not hire, darling. A favour. Family helps family.”
“Your college skills should suffice,” Robert added.
I was stunned. Speechless.
“If you insist, we could pay you,” Margaret added sweetly.
“I don’t want your money. I want you to leave.”
“You’d turn away family?” Margaret gasped.
“I offered to help. You turned it into an insult.”
“What else are you good for?” Robert snapped.
“Get. Out.”
“Think of Oliver,” Margaret warned as she stood.
“Don’t worry—I’ll tell him everything,” I said, slamming the door behind them.
“They treated me like dirt, Oliver. Like I was beneath you—beneath them!” I sobbed.
He pulled me close, brushing tears from my cheeks.
“Don’t cry. I’ll handle it. They won’t speak to you like that again.”
The next day, they came back—this time, Oliver was home.
“Why’d you call us?” Robert’s voice boomed down the hall.
“Tamed your little housemaid?” Margaret sniped.
I winced.
Once they sat down, Oliver cleared his throat.
“Mum. Dad. There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Oh no,” Margaret groaned. “Don’t say you’re having a baby!”