The Guests Next Door: How Faith Drew the Line Against Impertinence
Andrew returned home weary, but the flat smelled inviting—roast meat sizzled in the oven while Faith chopped vegetables for a salad. He kissed his wife and remarked,
“It smells wonderful.”
“I’ve cooked for our guests,” she answered with a smile.
“My relatives?” He frowned. “I asked you not to bother.”
“But how could I refuse? They’re family, and after a long day’s work, they’ll want a meal.”
“Faith, you’ll understand later… You should have listened.”
A few hours earlier, his mother had called.
“Son, Emily—Lydia’s daughter—just bought a flat near yours with her husband. Until the plumbing’s fixed, they’ve no water. Lydia begged—could they shower at yours for a day or two?”
Andrew wasn’t thrilled. Even as a child, he’d disliked Emily—a schemer, just like her mother.
“Fine, they can come,” he sighed. “But only to shower, nothing more.”
Emily and her husband, Tom, arrived by evening.
“Hello! I’m Emily, this is my husband. You must be Faith?”
Without waiting, Emily wandered through the rooms, testing door handles, peering into the bedroom. Andrew shut the door firmly.
“You’re here to shower, yes?”
“Oh, yes! Faith, could we borrow towels? We forgot ours.”
Once bathed, they lingered. Settling in the parlour, they inhaled the roasting scent.
“My, that smells divine!” Emily chirped. “What’s cooking?”
Faith sighed and invited them to dine.
They cleared their plates entirely, then left—forgetting towels, sponges, and shampoo. Faith sighed.
“The soap and shampoo don’t matter, but I’ll need new sponges.”
The next day repeated itself. And the next. Faith served a broccoli bake; Emily wrinkled her nose.
“Ugh! You eat this? Bring us proper chops!”
On the fourth evening, it was pasta with meat sauce. Emily complained again.
“Hardly any meat. Just sauce.”
Andrew turned to Tom.
“When will the water be fixed?”
“It already is,” Tom admitted.
Emily cut in swiftly.
“But the showerhead’s not fitted yet…”
After supper, Faith eyed her husband.
“I’ve an idea to deter them. But you must play along.”
The next night, as the guests settled, Faith brought out a tray of plain oats, grated apple, and honey.
“The French Beauty Salad. Very nourishing. Andrew and I eat nothing else now.”
Emily chewed reluctantly; the dish clearly displeased her. They left promptly.
“Tonight, you cook,” Faith told her husband. “There’s dumplings in the freezer.”
Days later, Emily called.
“Still eating that salad?”
“Aye, Faith insists. If you visit, bring roast beef—I can’t stomach more oats.”
“No, we shan’t return. We’ve water and a showerhead now.”
Soon after, Andrew’s mother rang.
“Lydia says Faith starves you.”
“Mother, don’t listen to nonsense. I’m fed, hale, and happy. And—news—we’re moving to a house next month, selling this flat. Then we’ll see who’s truly family.”
