That evening, my heart nearly leaped out of my chest, teeth clenched tight. I remember how it all started—a simple phone call from my son: “Mum, Emma and I are popping round to see you. To meet you.” His voice was cheerful, confident, like a man finally taking a serious step. My husband and I exchanged glances, thrilled: at last—our Peter had settled down, ready to marry. About time he stopped gallivanting about as a bachelor!
Peter’s always been a peculiar lad. Independent from childhood, but stubborn. After school, he joined the army, then out of nowhere: “I’m off to the Highlands. To work. Earn my keep.” We were stunned, but didn’t argue. He left—and true enough, came home with treats: salmon, venison, berries. Said he loved it there, harsh but stunning scenery, real folk.
And now—marriage was on the cards. We laid the table, put out bread and salt, dressed in our best, waiting. The doorbell rang. I answered. And then… I nearly lost my voice.
On the doorstep stood a woman. Well, first I saw only an enormous reindeer-fur coat, and behind it—three children and Peter himself. The coat stepped in, shrugged off—and out came a slight, short girl with thick black hair and a sharp, bird-like gaze. Peter introduced her:
“This is Morag. My fiancée.”
My stomach dropped. The girl gave a silent nod, while the children, without waiting for an invite, plonked themselves on the floor. One started tugging off his wellies, another clambered onto the windowsill. The youngest, Morag deftly tethered to the sofa leg with her belt to stop him bolting. All this happened in silence, and with a scent—as if the whole Highlands had marched into our flat in York.
We moved to the parlour. I spread the white tablecloth, set the feast. Morag began serving the children—with her hands! Used a fork for herself, but prodded her food straight from her mouth. Spoke in sharp, clipped tones.
“Are these yours?” my husband asked, eyeing the trio on the floor.
“Mine,” she replied flatly.
I shot a look at Peter’s dad. So now they’re our family?
“Peter, lad, where’d you meet?” I asked, voice betraying a tremble.
“In the Highlands, Mum. She sings like an angel. You should hear her!” he said, grinning—a son I suddenly didn’t recognise.
“And where’ll you live?” my husband cut in.
“A bothy’d do,” Peter shrugged, indifferent.
Something in me snapped. I retreated to the kitchen, my husband trailing. We stared at each other—gobsmacked.
“What do we do?”
“Dunno,” he muttered, palms up.
Back in the room, my husband handed Peter a wad of notes without meeting his eye:
“Here’s for a hotel. Sorry, but you can’t stay.”
Peter sighed.
“You always said—just marry anyone, we’d accept her. So I brought her.”
They left. With the kids. The coat. The smell.
Forty minutes passed. The doorbell again. I rushed to answer. There they stood—but different. Morag, now in a plain jacket, hair in a ponytail, eyes twinkling.
“Hello,” she said politely. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t understand,” I mumbled, stepping aside.
Peter, grinning, stepped forward:
“Mum, you’ve been nagging—just marry someone, anyone. Well—I don’t want to. Not yet. This is Morag, my mate. We thought we’d have a laugh. She’s from Inverness, visiting with her nieces and nephews. Had nowhere to stay. So I figured—why not put on a show?”
I flopped onto the hallway stool. My legs gave way.
“Son, do what you like—but never scare me like that again. Nearly gave me a heart attack!” I gasped.
We returned to the table. Morag, now transformed, helped in the kitchen. The kids sat properly, laughing. And my husband and I realised: we’re getting old. But Peter’s joke? A cracker—terrifyingly lifelike.
