“Liz, we wont take much. Just pack us one of your famous pies and a couple of jars of jam for the road,” Gabe drawled, a lazy grin on his face.
Liz stared at him, disbelief tightening her chest. How could he ask so shamelessly?
Her mind raced with memories of kneading the dough until her fingers ached, scrubbing every inch of the cottage before their arrival. And now Gabewho hadnt lifted a finger all weeklounged in the shade, demanding treats like she was running a bloody takeaway.
She glanced at Tom, who seemed oblivious to his brothers audacity.
“Gabe, dont you think thats a bit much?” Liz asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.
“Oh, come off it, Liz!” He waved a hand without even looking up. “Were family, arent we? Youve got loads to spare.”
A slow, simmering anger coiled in her stomach.
The lakeside cottagebought three years agohad been their sanctuary.
Summer here was relentless: dawn starts, weeding, berry picking, tending the chickens, preserving for winter. Every bit of help mattered.
And thats why Gabes demand cut deep. He hadnt noticedor hadnt caredabout the work. To him, this place was just a free holiday, and she and Tom were the staff.
It had started three weeks ago, when Gabe rang out of the blue. “Fancy a visit, lend a hand with the chores, maybe relax by the water a bit?”
Liz had nearly dropped the phone. Gabe and his wife, Olivia, were city folk through and throughcocktail bars, brunches, weekend shopping sprees.
“Lend a hand?” shed repeated skeptically.
But Gabe ploughed on. “Course! Family sticks together, right? Fresh airll do us good. Been ages since I picked strawberries, had a proper sauna”
After hanging up, Liz sat on the porch, absently worrying the hem of her apron.
She knew Gabes promises were like cobwebsfragile and easily swept aside. But Tom had lit up at the news. “Maybe theyll actually help with the berries. Or the fence.”
The days before their arrival were a blur of preparation, as if royalty were descending. Fresh linens, spotless towels, a trip to the market for steak, wine, gourmet cheeseanything to make their stay comfortable.
“Maybe itll be fine,” Liz muttered, hanging the towels. “If they lift a finger, itll be a miracle.”
When Gabe and Olivia finally rolled up, Liz forced a smile, masking her doubts.
They looked relaxed, already sun-kissed, as if theyd just returned from a spa.
“Here we are!” Gabe boomed, arms spread wide.
Lizs smile strained as she ushered them to the tablesalads, warm scones, homemade lemonade waiting.
For half an hour, chatter flowed easily. Then Tom broached the plan.
“Tomorrow, well start with the hay. Then onto the strawberries. Plenty to do, but many hands make light work.”
“Absolutely,” Olivia nodded, though her eyes flickered with confusion, as if “haymaking” were some obscure medieval practice.
Liz caught the look, a prickling unease settling in her chest. Something told her their “help” would be invisible.
The first day passed like a holiday. Liz tried to ignore the overgrown grass, the strawberries choked by weeds, the apples waiting to be jarred.
Gabe was in his elementjokes booming, sunflower seeds cracking, boasting about “escaping the rat race.” Olivia posed in her new sundress, snapping endless sunset selfies by the lake.
Tom grinned, buoyed by his brothers presence, hopeful the work would go faster.
But by day two, the mood shifted.
Liz woke at dawn to the roosters crow, tugged on her wellies, and stepped into the dewy chill. The chickens clucked impatiently as she scooped feedthen her gaze snagged on the guest room. Curtains drawn. Silent.
By 8 a.m., shed fed the birds, picked a bucket of greens, hauled water for the vegetable patch.
Tom emerged with tea, frowning. “Gabe and Olivia drove into town. Said it was urgent.”
Liz nodded, though the words stung. Shed hoped theyd at least join after breakfast.
They returned at dusk, laden with crisps, fizzy drinks, and beer, triumphant as if theyd single-handedly restocked Tesco.
“Liz, this place is like a retreat!” Gabe flopped onto the porch swing. “Everything just happens!”
By the next day, irritation festered. Liz mowed alone, hauled buckets, scrubbed floors, cooked meals.
Gabe swayed in the hammock, scrolling, complaining of a headache.
“Mustve caught a chill. Need to rest.”
Olivia sprawled on a beach towel, uploading captions: #CountryLife #ChillMode #LakeVibes.
Each day, Lizs exhaustion deepened. Up at five, bed past midnight, cleaning up after their “guests.”
They never offered helpgenuinely believing their presence was gift enough.
“Were here as guests,” Olivia had blinked when Liz asked her to clear plates. “Since when do guests work?”
From then, Lizs smile turned brittle, every request a fresh test of patience.
Inside, the dam was cracking.
On day five, she snapped.
All morning, shed weeded, hauled water, sweat stinging her eyeswhile laughter drifted from the porch, where Olivia lounged, chatting with friends.
When Tom trudged in, dirt-streaked and weary, Liz met him with steel in her voice.
“I cant do this. They wont even wash a dish. Gabe demanded I iron his shirt. Olivia called breakfast ‘basic.'”
Tom nodded. That evening, they presented a plan: Gabe would help fix the fence; Olivia would weed the strawberries.
Liz hoped, desperately, it might click for them: this wasnt a hotel.
“Gabe, fence tomorrow. You in?” Tom asked over supper.
“Sure, sure,” Gabe mumbled, shovelling in steak, eyes glued to his phone.
His disinterest was palpable.
At dawn, Tom gathered tools, brewed strong teaready for teamwork.
He knocked. Silence. Louder. Only the hum of AC answered.
The room was empty.
A note on the nightstand:
*Gone to town. Back by dinner! BBQ tonight!*
They returned at dusk, arms full of meat, beer, and pretzels, laughing about “traffic nightmares.” Liz, swaying with exhaustion, met them on the porch.
“We agreed on chores,” she said flatly.
“Right, right,” Gabe waved the meat bag. “Tomorrow, promise!”
But come morning, he announced:
“Got to dash back. Shame we couldnt help!”
Then, grinning:
“Oh, Lizpack us one of your pies. And a few jars of that jam. Its divine!”
Rage boiled upseven days of dawns, chores, cooking, cleaning, all for these ungrateful leeches.
“No,” she said, voice trembling. “You havent lifted a finger.”
Gabe froze, face flushing.
“Nice hospitality!” he spat. “We came with open hearts!”
“Open hearts?” Liz snapped. “You lazed about while I worked! This isnt a bloody resort!”
Tom stepped beside her, voice low but firm.
“You offered to help, Gabe. Instead, you ate, drank, and complained.”
“Family doesnt keep score!” Gabe shouted, stepping closer. “Embarrassing, Tom!”
Olivia sighed theatrically, marched to the car, and slammed the door.
“Lets go, Gabe!” she yelled. “They dont appreciate us!”
Gabe turned, mouth openthen swiped a hand through the air, as if swatting them away.
The car screeched off, his final shout hanging in the air:
“Enjoy your bloody pies!”
Silence settled. Tom exhaled, sinking onto the steps.
“Lesson learned,” he muttered. “No more freeloaders.”
Liz nodded. That evening, they walked the landfence still broken, strawberries weedy, hay uncut.
But the exhaustion felt different now. Honest.
Later, they lit the sauna, sipped tea with jamthe very jam Gabe had begged forand watched the lake glimmer. Their haven, reclaimed.
“Next guests,” Liz said wryly, “better bring their own bloody rake.”
Tom chuckled. They both knewrespect and sweat mattered more than empty smiles.
