**Diary Entry**
That was the last straw.
“Enough! I’ve had it!” barked Oliver the moment he and Emily stepped into their flat. “When will you learn to hold your tongue?”
“What did I even say?” Emily shot back, indignant.
“You’re seriously asking?” Oliver sneered. “You’ve crossed every line, love. Time you learned some manners.”
“Oliver, what’s this really about?” Emily took a step back.
“Your behaviour’s been appalling! Petite thing like you, yet full of attitude!”
“Not all of us can be lumbering giants like you!” she retorted. “A woman’s meant to be delicate, refined!”
“And quiet, obedient, meek—qualities you sorely lack!” Oliver unbuckled his belt and slid it free. “High time you were taught your place.”
“Are you mad?” Emily backed away further. “You’d actually hit me?”
“Teach you a lesson!” he snapped. “And punish that sharp tongue of yours! You nearly gave my mum a heart attack today!”
“Well, maybe she shouldn’t spout nonsense!” Emily fired back. “Why should I take off my heels—which, mind you, I brought in a bag—just to wear her grubby slippers? I won’t mince about like some shrinking violet!”
“Perfectly good slippers!” Oliver advanced. “For guests!”
“Since when do guests wash dishes and scrub the stove?” Emily tilted her head. “And I won’t be ordered about!”
“That’s why you’re getting this! You’re my wife, not some spoiled princess. I’ll beat some respect into you—for me and my parents!”
“Let them behave decently first!” Emily darted into the bedroom. “They’re rude, and I’m just supposed to take it? You should’ve stood up for me! Look how small I am—they bullied me!” She pouted but kept a wary eye on him.
“If you acted according to your size and station, no one would’ve snapped at you! But no, you’ve always got an opinion. Well, I’ll knock it out of you!”
“Please don’t!” Emily sniffled. “You’ll hurt me!”
“Damn right I will,” Oliver grinned. “You’ll remember your place for life. Tiny thing, yet you carry on like the Queen herself!”
“Stop!” she squealed, pressing against the wall, curling into a ball. “Please, no!”
Oliver closed in, belt raised. “Oh, yes. Spoilt brats like you need it knocked out of them. Only way you’ll learn.”
—
Meeting Emily’s parents had left an indelible mark on Oliver.
Henry, who insisted on being called “Dad Henry,” had gripped Oliver’s hand in a hearty shake before pulling him into a bear hug.
“Son! I’d do anything for you! Always dreamed of a lad—Margaret only gave me a daughter, then called it quits! Fishing, football, hunting—that’s what fathers and sons do! Not all this frilly nonsense. But with you, son-in-law, we’ll make up for lost time!”
“Glad to hear it, Dad Henry,” Oliver mumbled awkwardly. “I’m not much for fishing.”
“Neither was I at first!” Henry laughed. “Point is, I’ve got a son now! I’ll teach you everything!”
“If there’s time…”
“You don’t understand what this means to me!” Henry’s eyes welled up. “With them, there’s nothing to talk about.” He jerked his head towards Emily and Margaret. “But you and me—cars, space, moaning about women ruling the roost!”
Margaret gently steered her husband aside and ushered Oliver to the table.
“It’s a sore spot,” she said apologetically. “Five sisters, works with women—he nearly walked out of the hospital when I said it was a girl. Now he’s got you to share his woes.”
“I’ll do my best,” Oliver said politely.
“I’m sure you will,” Margaret smiled. “You’ve no idea how he longed for a son. Even tried raising Emily like a lad—thank heavens I stepped in. A girl should be gentle, sweet, refined—not whatever he was trying to make her!”
Henry scowled at his wife, then Emily, before beaming at Oliver.
“See?” Margaret sighed. “Still holds a grudge. Sometimes he’ll burst in, excited to share something, then remember it’s ‘not women’s talk.’ Waves it off, mutters, and stalks out. Some days we barely speak. But since you came along, Oliver—” she patted his arm, “—he’s a new man!”
“If he bothers you, just say so. I’ll rein him in.”
“No, it’s fine! We’ll get on.”
And Dad Henry didn’t disappoint. He commandeered Oliver almost as his personal confidant, unloading his grievances.
“You’ve no idea how thrilled I am to have another man in the family! Together, we’ll outnumber ‘em! Living with them’s unbearable! Swear once—just once—and they act like you’ve committed a war crime. Can’t even walk ‘round in your underwear! Margaret starts: ‘This isn’t a beach!’ Then Emily chimes in—‘Ew, Dad!’” He slashed a hand across his throat. “Their ‘ews’ make me sick!”
“Refined sensibilities,” Oliver offered.
“Too refined! See them on a diet—fridge full of kale and spinach! Might as well beg the neighbours for stew! And the theatre? Absolute drivel! People loving, hating, suffering in turns. I skipped the second act—drove a cab instead! They rinsed my ears for weeks after. Exhibitions, orchestras—I nearly died of culture!”
“Suppose women are meant to be like that,” Oliver said.
“Margaret, sure—I picked a quiet one. But I thought she’d give me a son! Instead—” He waved dismissively. “Only good thing she did was bring you home!”
“We’ll live separately after the wedding,” Oliver reminded him.
“Smart! Lock your refined missus up to cook while I do the same with mine. Then you and me—proper blokes’ life!”
From Henry’s rants, Oliver gathered he’d never much cared for Emily. Margaret had raised her, and the two were near inseparable—petite, sharp-witted, educated, and never shy with their opinions.
—
“Emily,” Oliver coaxed once, “let’s not argue. Art’s subjective.”
“No, let’s settle this!” she insisted. “Truth must prevail!”
“Even if it does, we’ll row. What difference does Monet or Manet make?”
“Just admit you’re conceding!” She stuck her tongue out, laughing.
But worse clashes came.
“Was it so hard to stay quiet? Shove those boxes in the loft, bin them later!” Oliver groaned.
“If you’ll toss them anyway, why bring them home?” Emily frowned.
“Blimey, was it worth upsetting my mum? We’re not planning kids yet, but she’s sentimental!”
“She can keep her sentiments to herself!” Emily crossed her arms.
“It’s just four boxes of my old things!”
“No thanks!” She scoffed. “I’ll buy new things for our child—not dusty relics from your mum’s cupboard!”
“Why tell her that? She was on Valium after!”
“And why’s this my fault?” Emily glared. “If you knew we didn’t need it, you should’ve refused! Instead, you cooed over Mum’s ‘precious memories.’ Be a man—say no! If nostalgia’s so precious, let her keep the junk!”
“Enough!” Oliver snapped. “I’m going to apologise to her.”
“If she foists that rubbish on you, dump it in a skip. Don’t bring it home.”
“Listen.” He fixed her with a look. “I’ll smooth things over. And you—please—stop provoking her. An apology from you would make me very happy.”
“For your sake, then. But not today. I need to calm down.”
Emily never quite meshed with her in-laws. Oliver made frequent apology trips, then coaxed her into half-hearted “sorrys.”
Two years passed. Then, after another grovelling visit, Oliver’s parents—Louise and Richard—steered the conversation elsewhere.
“How long will you blush for your wife?” Richard demanded. “A grown man, debasing himself—not even for his own mistakes!”
“That insufferable upstart!” Louise cut in.
“Son, I know you’ve a marriage to uphold,” Richard said, “but her behaviour’s disgraceful. If even we struggle to tolerate it, strangers won’t excuse it. They’ll think you weak—and respect you less for it.”
“What d’you suggest?” Oliver faltered.
“Tell her to save the tantrums for home,” Louise said. “In public, a woman should be dem
