“Are you out of your mind?” he hissed, taking another step forward, invading her personal space. “Why didnt you let my sister in?”
Owen didnt just enter the flathe stormed in, bringing with him a gust of cold autumn air from the stairwell and the sharp tang of his irritation.
The key twisted violently in the lock, the door slammed against the wall, and he froze on the threshold, still in his rain-drenched coat. His usually easygoing, slightly lazy face was twisted with anger he made no effort to hide.
In the kitchen, on the small sofa by the window, sat Marianne. She was reading.
The lamplight fell on her hair and the pages of the thick hardback in her lap. She didnt flinch at the noise, didnt look up. Only her finger, resting on the line, stilled.
She waited until he repeated his question, louder this time, with poorly restrained fury.
“Marianne, Im talking to you! Sophie rang me in tears. She and her husband came over specially during their lunch breakthey were starving, and you didnt even open the door! What was I supposed to say? That my wife decided to make a point?”
Only then did Marianne slowly, almost reluctantly, pull herself away from the book. She didnt close it but carefully slid a thin bookmark inside and set it beside her on the sofa.
She lifted her eyes to his. Her gaze was clear, cold as a winter sky. There was no fear, no guilt, no pity. Just quiet, heavy exhaustion.
“I heard the doorbell,” she said evenly. “And I saw through the peephole who it was. Thats why I didnt answer.”
Owen hadnt expected that. Hed braced himself for excuses, claims of a headache, or that she simply hadnt heard. The blunt admission threw him. He took a few steps into the kitchen, his shoes leaving muddy prints on the clean floor.
“So you did it on purpose?” His voice dropped, making it only more menacing. “You saw it was my sister and deliberately left her on the doorstep? What kind of game is this, Marianne? Theyre used to having lunch here!”
He said it as if invoking an unbreakable law of the universe. A tradition carved in stone.
*Used to.* The words hung in the air, thick with his righteous anger and her silent refusal.
To him, it was normalhis sister and her husband, who worked nearby, coming over every single weekday for lunch. It was convenient, cost-effective for them, and, in his mind, completely reasonable. Hed never questioned where the food came from, who cooked it, or who cleaned up afterward. It simply *was*. Like the sun rising.
Marianne stood without a word. She was shorter than Owen, slimmer, but in that moment, she seemed to fill the entire kitchen.
She walked to the counter and leaned against its cold edge, staring straight at himat his flushed face, the raindrops still clinging to his dark hair.
“*Used to*?” she repeated softly.
The words were quiet but struck like a whip. Her voice held no emotion, just a bare statement of fact. She tilted her head slightly, studying him as if he were a strange object.
“Time to break the habit.”
Owen froze. His brain refused to process what hed just heard. This was outright rebellion. A violation of the unspoken agreement hed believed their marriageand his peace of mindwas built on.
The initial anger sparked by his sisters complaint shifted into something deeper, more personalthe sense that his territory, his rules, had been invaded in the most audacious way.
“Are you *serious*?” he spat, stepping closer, crowding her. “What gives you the right to decide who comes into *my* home? Shes my sister! My own flesh and blood! Theyre not coming for *you*, theyre coming for *me*! And as my wife, youre supposed to be hospitable. Thats your *job*!”
He was shouting now, filling the kitchen with his outrage. Every word was an accusation. He wasnt askinghe was declaring. Painting a picture of the world where roles were clear: he was the provider, the head of the household; she was the keeper of the hearth, ensuring comfort and hot meals for him and his kin.
And now that picture was crumbling.
“Youve turned greedy, Marianne! A selfish, greedy woman! You begrudge a bowl of soup to my own family? Do you have any idea how this looks? Theyll laugh at us! Say Ive become a pushover, that my wife dictates who I can see!”
Marianne listened without changing expression. She didnt lower her gaze or try to interrupt. She simply watched him, and in her calmness was something terrifying.
She let him finish, let him pour out every drop of venom hed bottled up during that short phone call with Sophie.
When he finally fell silent, breathing hard, she didnt respond to his accusations. Instead, she did the last thing he expected.
Wordlessly, she stepped around him, opened the kitchen drawer, and pulled out the cheap calculator she usually used for bills. Then she grabbed a notepad and a biro.
Owen stared, bewildered. Hed expected tears, shouting, argumentsanything but this cold, methodical efficiency.
Marianne sat at the table, placed the notepad in front of her, and switched on the calculator. The dry click of buttons was deafening in the silence.
“Right, lets do the maths,” she said, her voice flat, like a newsreader reciting stock prices. “Starting with groceries.”
“Meat, vegetables, staples, bread, butter. Feeding four adults requires” Her fingers flew over the calculator. “At current prices, roughly £15 a day. Just for lunch. Multiply by twenty workdays. £300. Thats just the food, paid for from our shared budget.”
Owen stood rigid, watching her. He didnt understand where this was going but felt a cold prickle down his spine.
“Now, my time,” she continued, jotting down figures. “Shopping, cooking for four, serving, then washing up and cleaning. Thats at least two hours a day. A private chef and cleaner in this city would charge say, £20 an hour. Two hours a day is £40. Times twenty days. Another £300.”
She circled the total with a firm stroke, then turned the notepad toward him.
“Total: £600 a month. Thats the cost of your sisters *habit*. Since there are two of them, split it. £300 per person. But since they dont come daily, well charge per visit.” She wrote at the top of the page in bold letters: *MENU*. “Here.”
“From today, lunch or dinner for your relatives costs £25. Per person. Per meal. Pass that on. Payment upfront, by card.”
She set down the pen and looked him dead in the eye.
“Oh, and Ill invoice you for tonights dinner too. If were running a restaurant for your family, *everyone* pays. Or they can eat elsewhere.”
She tore the page out and slid it across the table. Owen stared at the neat figures, at this absurd, humiliating proposition, and realisedshe wasnt joking.
This was a wall. A cold, unyielding wall built of numbers and facts, against which his comfortable world had just shattered.
His familys free meal ticket had been revoked. Permanently.
Owen crumpled the paper in his fist, the tight ball pressing into his palm like a stone. Without a word, he turned and left the kitchen. When he returned from the bedroom, his phone was in his hand.
He spoke loudly, making no effort to hide the conversation from Marianne, who remained by the counter, staring impassively out the window.
“Sophie? Listen, you wont believe what shes No, shes *here*! Shes just lost it. Shes invoiced me! For your lunches!”
“Yes, *yes*, Im serious. Twenty-five quid a head. Says were running a restaurant now. I dont know whats got into her, I swear! Shes not right in the head.”
He didnt repeat Mariannes arguments about costs or time. He framed it as if his wife had suddenly, inexplicably turned greedy.
It was easier that way. Made him the victim, not the man whod spent years enabling his familys exploitation of her.
The next day, at noon sharp, the doorbell rangnot a polite tap but a long, demanding buzz that left no doubt about the visitors intentions.
Marianne, dusting the living room, calmly set down the cloth and went to answer. She knew who it was.
On the doorstep stood Sophie. Beside her, like a silent enforcer, loomed her husband, Iana large man with a permanently displeased expression. Sophie was righteous fury incarnate, cheeks flushed, eyes sparking. She didnt greet Marianne.
“Im here to see my brother!” she snapped, trying to shoulder past.
Marian
