Mum’s coming? Cancel that! We’ve got my ex arriving instead!
Emily stood by the stove as the scent of roasted meat and spices filled the kitchen. It was one of those rare evenings when she had time to cook something beyond scrambled eggs. She wiped her brow tiredly, turned around, and called out:
—Daniel, you remember my mum’s visiting tomorrow, right?
A few seconds later, he appeared in the doorway—dishevelled, eyes still heavy with sleep.
—What mum?— Daniel blinked, confused. —Did you mention that?
—Yes! Days ago!— Emily frowned. —We agreed she’d come Sunday.
Suddenly, Daniel tensed and blurted out:
—Call it off. She can’t come tomorrow. Not a chance.
—Why not?— Emily’s guard went up.
—Because… Sophie’s coming.
—Who the hell is Sophie?
—Well… my ex,— he exhaled.
A deep silence settled over the room, then shattered with Emily’s incredulous cough—she didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.
—Are you serious? You want your ex staying here the exact same day my mum arrives?
—No, you’ve got it wrong! She’s not *staying* staying, just crashing for a night! She’s had a row with her bloke, nowhere else to go. Just a couple nights, promise. We’re ancient history, you know that! Sophie’s just a mate in a tight spot!
—And you don’t think how this’ll look? Mum walks in and there’s your ‘old friend’ from the past wandering about. Brilliant impression!
—We’ll say she’s *your* friend. You’re a convincing actress—mum’ll buy it!
Emily rolled her eyes, but somewhere deep down, she was already imagining the scene: Sophie striding in and declaring Emily as ‘the missus’ right from the doorstep. It was revolting yet oddly fascinating.
That evening, the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood Sophie—tall, assured, with a sharp bob and a designer tote. She gave Emily a once-over, sizing her up.
—Ah, so *you’re* the official one? Right… Well, don’t worry, I’m just passing through. Wouldn’t dream of touching your husband.
Emily bit back her annoyance and simply muttered:
—Room on the right. My mum’s coming tomorrow—don’t make a scene.
Sophie stepped inside while Emily returned to the kitchen, where dinner was already cooling.
—Sophie, joining us for supper?
—Course! That’s not homemade pie, is it? Don’t tell me you baked it—those are store-bought pastry sheets and jam, yeah?
—Feel free to skip it,— Emily clipped, though her lips twitched with the ghost of a smirk.
Sophie, unfazed, suddenly offered:
—Want me to teach you real baking? My gran was a proper chef—I grew up by the oven.
And so the evening unfolded in ways neither expected. By midnight, the two were chatting like old friends—men, recipes, even fashion. For the first time, Emily didn’t feel like just ‘the wife’ but a woman worth impressing. Sophie wasn’t the enemy—she was an ally.
Morning came, and Sophie left for work. Then came the knock: Emily’s mum, Margaret, at the door. The aroma of fresh roast beef hit her immediately.
—You made this?— Her mother’s eyes widened. —Never thought I’d see the day…
Emily just nodded, pride barely contained. She knew exactly who to thank—that so-called ‘ex.’
Later, Sophie rang:
—Em, I’m home tonight. Made up with James. Cheers for the dress and the pep talk—he nearly dropped his whiskey when he saw me at the gala. Says he’s taking me to every business do now. Oh, and we signed the contract. You’re a gem. Popping by tomorrow for my things—and giving you a proper hug, mate!
Emily hung up and looked at Daniel:
—You were right, you know. She’s actually lovely. And maybe… I know who I am now. Not just a wife. The lady of the house. A woman who’s got something to give.
—Christ, if you’re friends with Sophie now, I don’t understand the world anymore!— Daniel threw up his hands.
—Just stay out of the way,— Emily smiled, —and everything’ll be fine.
