**December 10th**
They say the magic happens at Christmas…
Only three weeks left, and soon every home will be decked with twinkling lights, tables laid with champagne and roast dinners. Glasses will clink, toasts will be made, and wishes whispered under the mistletoe. Emma knew exactly what she’d wish for—a proposal from Oliver and a pretty little ring to go with it.
That weekend, she braved the shops for last-minute gifts, fancy treats for the holiday spread, and—if luck was on her side—something new for herself. The noise, the crowds, the stifling heat of the department stores wore her down, but she managed a few things: a crisp shirt and belt for Oliver, trinkets for coworkers, and a new perfume. The dress would have to wait. Plenty of time yet.
The Tube was stifling, packed elbow-to-elbow. Emma hailed a cab instead. Through the window, snow drifted lazily past shopfronts already aglow with festive displays. She imagined getting home, curling up with Oliver for a cosy evening. Tomorrow was another day off—a chance to sleep in. They weren’t married, but they lived together. That counted as family, didn’t it? They’d already agreed: this Christmas would be just the two of them.
***
She’d come to London from a quiet market town. University had earned her top marks, then a well-paid job in the City. Enough to start saving for a flat.
For two years, she’d split the rent with a friend. But then the friend got serious with a boyfriend, and suddenly, sharing a space felt awkward. Renting alone was impossible—she’d never scrape together a deposit.
Her parents stepped in, emptying their savings, adding to what she’d managed to squirrel away. Flat-hunting began in earnest. Too expensive, too far out, too much work—nothing fit. Half-hearted, she dragged herself to view one last place.
It wasn’t central. Two cramped bedrooms, a shoebox kitchen on the twelfth floor. But when she stepped to the window, her breath caught. The view stretched over a wide avenue, cars flowing like a river below. She imagined evenings spent right there, tea in hand, and signed the papers without a second thought.
The furniture came on credit. She lined the wide windowsill with cushions, turning it into a perch where she could lose herself in the city’s pulse.
At last—her own place. And not just anywhere: London. Before thirty, no less. Wasn’t that luck? She loved coming home, tracing the rooms with her fingers, dusting surfaces that belonged to her.
Then, four months ago, she met Oliver on the Tube. He gave up his seat. Turned out they lived close. They stepped off at the same stop, and he carried her shopping bags all the way to her door.
*”Renting around here?”* he’d asked.
*”No, it’s mine,”* she’d said, chin lifting.
Soon, he made a habit of bumping into her at the station in the mornings. They’d chatter the whole way—until her stop. He’d ride on toward his own office. Both single, both smitten—nothing stood in their way.
Oliver started staying over. He loved the view; his own flat faced a dingy courtyard. In the mornings, he’d dash home to change. Emma bought him a toothbrush.
*”Why not just keep a spare shirt here? Save yourself the rush,”* she suggested.
*”Might as well give up my flat. Barely use it anyway—wasting money on rent.”* He laughed.
*”Fine,”* she teased. *”I’ll rent you the spare room. Payment in kind. Deal?”*
He moved in the next day. They celebrated with wine, then sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the windowsill, watching the city glitter.
Nothing could touch their little world. Emma floated. Everything had fallen perfectly into place. Her parents hinted at weddings, grandchildren. Life stretched ahead, bright and sure.
***
Emma stumbled over trampled boots in the doorway. A stranger’s puffy coat hung on the rack. Voices buzzed from the living room. She hung up her own coat and stepped inside.
Oliver and a round-cheeked woman in a floral headscarf sat on the sofa.
*”Mum, this is Emma,”* Oliver said, jumping up.
The woman turned, beaming so wide her eyes vanished into creases. *”So pretty! Hello, dear.”* She hugged Emma, the scent of cheap perfume clinging like damp wool. *”Just popped in to see how my boy’s getting on.”*
Emma forced a smile, eyes darting to Oliver. *”You didn’t tell me your mum was visiting.”*
If he claimed it was a surprise, she wouldn’t believe him. No way his mother had found the flat on her own.
*”Sorry, slipped my mind,”* he muttered.
*”Brought some treats—left ’em in the kitchen,”* his mother chirped. *”Come see, love.”*
*Love. First meeting, and she’s already claiming me.*
*”You must be starving after your trip,”* Emma said, pulling soup from the fridge.
Over dinner, Oliver’s mother prattled about village gossip—meaningless to anyone but him. Emma listened, realising how little she knew him. *What else hasn’t he told me?*
*”Always said he should marry a London girl. Put down roots. Nothing back home worth sticking around for. Lovely flat—bit snug, though. No hauling coal for the boiler here!”*
Emma choked on her wine.
*Your* flat? *He hasn’t even proposed!*
But his mother had already moved on.
After pudding, she yawned, and Oliver led her to bed. Soon, snores rumbled through the flat.
*”How long’s she staying?”* Emma whispered.
*”Dunno. Few days? Dad’s on his own. Can’t just kick her out.”*
*”You should’ve warned me. You skipped the shops to meet her, didn’t you?”*
*”Don’t be mad. Knew you wouldn’t like it. That’s why I didn’t say.”*
This wasn’t right. But arguing with Oliver—with his mother snoring just rooms away—felt impossible. That evening, the woman parked in front of the telly, gasping at adverts like they were theatre.
Monday evening, Emma returned to the stink of burnt lard. Oliver’s mother was frying potatoes.
*”Turn on the extractor fan,”* Emma said. The kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it.
*”Bet your husband’s missing you,”* Emma ventured.
*”Him? Thrilled I’m gone! Thirty years of his moaning.”*
Emma nearly groaned. She wasn’t leaving.
Two days later, Oliver’s father arrived. *”Missed her.”*
Emma dreaded coming home. Her neat flat had become a sty. Clothes everywhere, shoes like landmines in the hall. The bathroom: puddles, splashed mirrors. His parents hogged the tub nightly.
At work, colleagues pounced. *”Mother-in-law from hell! Bet they’re trying to push you out.”*
A week left till Christmas. No sign of them leaving. Begging Oliver did nothing.
That evening, Emma marched home ready to confront them—but found his mother weeping, his father red-faced, shouting into his phone.
*”Oliver’s sister’s coming,”* his mother sniffled. *”Thought she’d met a good man, but he kicked her out!”*
Relief flickered. Finally—they’d leave to help her.
*”Wait… she’s coming* here*?”*
*”Where else? Our place has no proper heating!”*
Emma nearly exploded. No more silence. The second Oliver got back, she’d demand they *all* leave. Five adults—plus a baby—in her tiny flat? Unthinkable.
*”I’ll pay for their rental myself!”*
Then it hit her. *I have parents too.*
She didn’t wait for Oliver. Grabbed her coat, caught the train home. He called as she boarded.
*”Where are you?”*
*”Gone. I’m not coming back till your family’s out.”*
*”I thought you were kind. You’re just selfish!”*
*”Selfish? You moved in, then your parents, now your sister! We’re done.”*
Her mother gasped at the sight of her. *”Love, what’s wrong?”*
While Emma spilled the story, her father made a call.
*”Ryan’s coming. He’ll sort it.”*
Ryan? The name barely rang a bell—until a burly policeman filled the doorway.
*”Heard you’ve got squatters,”* he said.
Next morning, in a squad car, they rolled up to her flat. Ryan’s presence sent Oliver’s family shrinking toward the windows.
*”Show me your right-to-occupy papers,”* he boomed.
*”She’s my son’They married the following spring, and every Christmas afterward, Emma would curl up with Ryan on that same windowsill, watching the snow fall over the city, grateful that sometimes life’s sharpest turns lead you exactly where you’re meant to be.
