“Not another word about the holidaymy sisters arriving with her family tomorrow,” the husband snapped.
“Enough about your blasted beach!” Edward barked, tossing the TV remote onto the sofa. “Emilys coming tomorrow with the kids, and were not going anywhere!”
The words hit the room like a bucket of cold water. Lydia froze, the travel brochure in her hands trembling, glossy photos of turquoise waves suddenly feeling absurd.
*Bothering him?*
She set the brochure down slowly on the coffee table. Edward lounged in his armchair, channel-surfing, the flickering screen casting his face in indifferent blue light.
“What did you say?” Her voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it.
“I said what I said.” He didnt look away from the telly. “Emilys bringing the lothusband, kidsfor a month. So forget your seaside nonsense.”
*A month.* The word hung, thick as London fog. Lydia felt something inside her twist tight.
“Edward, we planned this since Christmas. Ive already paid for it. Ive waited a *year*”
“And I said *drop it*!” He smacked the table. “Family comes before your little fantasies!”
*Fantasies?* Her face burned. The nights hunched over her budget, skipping new clothes to save every pound? The postcards of Cornwall pinned above her desk?
“What fantasies, Edward?” She took a step forward, her movements deliberate. “I work myself raggedhome, jobwhen was the last time I had a proper break?”
“Dont start.” He cranked the volume up. “Emilys my sister. She hardly ever visits. End of.”
*Hardly ever?* Lydia scoffed. Emily descended every summer like a biblical plaguethree shrieking kids in tow, her husband Graham (who could empty a fridge in one sitting), and an expectation that Lydia would play housemaid.
“Edward, listen.” She perched on the sofa edge. “I get familys important. But Im a person, too. Ive got needs”
“Needs?” He snorted. “Lazing about? Paddling in the sea? What are you, a schoolgirl on half-term?”
*Schoolgirl?* She stared at himthe man shed shared a bed with for fifteen years. When had his eyes gone so cold?
“Yes, I want the sea.” She stood. “I want to wake to waves. Walk barefoot on sand. Be *Lydia*, not your sisters unpaid skivvy.”
“*Skivvy?*” He shot up. “Those are my niece and nephews!”
“Wholl wreck the house by noon!” Her control snapped. “Screaming, breaking things, demanding snacks! And Emily will sprawl on the sofa moaning about her exhaustion!”
“How *dare* you!” His face darkened. “Emilys a brilliant mum!”
“Brilliant mums dont raise little terrors!” The words tumbled out like rocks. “Recall last year? Smashed the heirloom vase, drew on the walls, and the toddler nearly set the kitchen alight!”
“Kids will be kids”
“And what about *me*? Am I not a person?” Something hot and wild surged in her chest. “Im just meant to endure it?”
Edward blinked, as if seeing her properly for the first timeunkempt, eyes blazing, a woman on the edge.
“Emily arrives tomorrow,” he said flatly. “Thats final.”
“Then *you* host them.” She turned toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Upstairs.” She paused at the threshold. “To think.”
To think about living with a man who saw her as a convenience.
The bedroom door slammed. Silence fellheavy, like the air before thunder.
Lydia lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the crumpled brochure still in her grip. The sea Shed imagined it so clearly. Dawn walks, salt air, freedom from drudgery. Now? A month as unpaid staff for Emilys circus.
*But what choice do I have?*
She drifted off clutching the shreds of her dream. Outside, wind rustled the oaka sound almost like waves, the waves she wouldnt hear this summer.
Or would she?
Morning brought grey drizzle and the growl of a Range Rover pulling up. Lydia sipped tea at the window, watching the familiar chaos unfold.
First out was Emilybleached blonde, fake tan, leggings stretched over too much thigh. Even through the glass, her screech carried:
“Graham, mind my *new* handbag! It was *two hundred quid!*”
Grahambalding, paunchyheaved suitcases silently, his mouth a resigned line.
The kids Lydias stomach clenched. Ten-year-old Oliver stomped in a puddle, splashing mud on his sister. Seven-year-old Charlotte whined about a lost hairclip. Four-year-old George wailed for no reason at all.
“Lydia!” Edward bellowed from the hall. “Theyre here! Come down!”
*Theyre here.* As if she hadnt noticed. As if the shrieks hadnt rattled the windowpanes.
She set her cup down and descended. The hallway was bedlam. Emily air-kissed Edward, leaving lipstick smears; the kids rampaged between luggage; Graham scraped mud off his loafers.
“Lyddie!” Emily lunged for a hug, reeking of cheap perfume and vape juice. “You look *awful*! Been ill?”
Lydia stiffened. “Hello, Emily. Journey alright?”
“*Horrendous!*” Emily rolled her eyes. “Kids were beasts, Graham took *three* wrong turns, and the AC broke. Speaking ofwheres yours? You *do* have AC, right?”
“Upstairs,” Lydia said tightly.
“And the lounge?” Emily was already prowling. “Were bunking there. Graham snores like a lorry.”
*Of course you are.* Lydia shot Edward a look. He busied himself with suitcases.
“Mum, I need the loo!” Oliver tugged Emilys sleeve.
“Down the hall,” Lydia said.
The boy sprinted off, leaving wet footprints. Charlotte, meanwhile, had seized Lydias favourite porcelain figurine.
“Charlotte, put that back,” Lydia said.
“What is it?” The girl turned it over. “Can I play with it?”
“No. Its fragile.”
“But Ill be *careful!*”
“Charlotte,” Graham muttered, “listen to Aunt Lydia.”
“Shes *not* my aunt!” Charlotte snapped. “Were not *family!*”
An awkward hush fell. Emily tittered:
“Kids, eh? So *blunt!* Dont take it personal, Lyddie.”
*Blunt.* Lydia rescued the figurine and set it high on a shelf. Charlotte scowled and flounced off.
“Mum, whats *this?*” Oliver returned, poking a finger into a divot in the wallan old nail hole.
“From a painting,” Lydia said.
“Can I stick my finger in?”
“*No.*” She grabbed his wrist. “Its unsafe.”
“Why?” Oliver yanked free. “Youre *mean!*”
“Oliver,” Graham sighed, “dont hassle Aunt Lydia.”
“*Not my aunt!*” the kids chorused.
George, silent till now, erupted in tears.
“Oh, *darling!*” Emily scooped him up. “Whats wrong?”
“Wanna go *home!*” he howled. “Hate it *here!*”
*Hate it here.* Lydia surveyed the carnagemud streaks, scattered bags, a snot-smeared sofa
“Perhaps theyre peckish?” she forced out. “I could whip up some toast.”
“*Yes!*” Emily brightened. “Were *starving!* Whatve you got?”
*What have I got?* Lydia mentally inventoried the fridgeenough for two, not six.
“Ill sort something,” she mumbled.
“Brilliant!” Emily flounced toward the lounge. “Graham, bring the bags! Kids, *dont touch anything!*”
The order was pointless. Oliver was already rifling through the bookcase, Charlotte had cranked *Peppa Pig* to deafening volume, and George was wiping his nose on the curtains.
Lydia stood amidst the wreckage, something hot and reckless bubbling up. She looked at Edward. He was *beaming*, hauling suitcases like a man fulfilled.
*A month. A whole bloody month of this.*
“Lydia!” Emily yelled from the lounge. “You got organic oat milk? George *only* drinks organic!”
“No,” Lydia said. “I dont.”
“Then *pop to Waitrose!*” Emily called, as if asking her to pass the salt. “Ill text a list!”
*Pop to Waitrose.* Something inside hera
