**Diary Entry – 12th June**
When our son, Oliver, brought Emily home for the first time, my wife and I were pleased. The girl struck us as modest, well-mannered, and kind—not the sort to grace magazine covers, but charming in her own way. She listened well, smiled warmly, and chose her words carefully. More importantly, she wasn’t idle: studying with Oliver at Bristol University, helping him with coursework, and showing genuine interest in his field. We thought, honestly, that luck had smiled on him.
We’re not wealthy. I work as an engineer at a local factory, and my wife is head nurse at the neighbourhood clinic. We live comfortably—a three-bed in Cheltenham, a modest cottage in the Cotswolds, and an old but reliable Vauxhall parked outside. Money’s never been our obsession, but when Emily casually brought up housing in conversation, I caught the flicker in her eyes. At the time, it barely registered. A mistake.
Emily’s from a small village near Worcester. Her parents, she said, were simple folk: her mother a shop assistant, her father working at a timber yard. Birth means nothing to us—we’ve never been the snobbish sort. But the moment her parents walked through our door, something inside me twisted.
We’d agreed on supper the following Saturday. My wife prepared roast beef, fresh salads, fruit—everything proper for guests. Yet when we returned home, we froze. The family was already seated in our living room, relaxed as if they owned the place. They’d come nearly three hours early. I’d answered the door in my dressing gown, caught off guard. “They were just there,” I told my wife later, “bags in hand, grinning.”
Emily’s mother was loud, self-assured to the point of arrogance. The moment she stepped in, she “joked”:
“Table’s not set yet? Thought we were guests here.”
I forced a smile. A joke? Perhaps. But the tone felt like a slap. I rushed to the kitchen, scrambling to serve. Over dinner, the chatter was light—weather, London life, university. Yet it was clear who ruled their household. Emily’s mother dominated; her father sat silent, nodding. Even Oliver looked lost.
Then came the blow:
“Been thinking… The young ones ought to live together. Get used to each other. And you’ve got a spare room, haven’t you? Emily’s stuck in halls—dreadful place, cockroaches, noisy girls. Renting’s a waste when they could stay here.”
She added, beaming:
“Emily’s no pampered princess. Cooks well, helps with chores, even keeps children in line. You’re lucky to have her!”
I nearly dropped the carving knife. So they’d decided their daughter wouldn’t just visit—she’d move in, play house, and we’d be grateful?
While I reeled, my wife silently poured tea. Later, after they’d left, we exchanged glances. “You heard all that?” I asked.
“Every word,” she murmured. “Felt like we were props in their plan. Smiling faces, cold calculation underneath.”
“I won’t let our son be a stepping stone,” I said quietly. “She’s not here for love. She’s here for an upgrade.”
My wife sighed. “Try telling him now. He’s smitten. Deaf to reason.”
Now I’m torn. Do I confront Oliver outright—risk his anger, his silence? Or wait, praying he sees her for what she is?
I *know*—deep in my bones—she’s not the sort to stand by him through hardship. Not a partner, just a tenant. What she wants isn’t a man, but a postcode: a free roof, a stocked fridge, a washing machine. And Oliver? Just the key to it all.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it *is* love. But if so, why does every word sound like a bargain?
Lesson learned: Some doors, once opened, can’t be shut. And not every smile is meant kindly.
