“Not another word about the holidaymy sister and her lot are coming tomorrow,” the husband muttered through gritted teeth.
“Enough about your blasted beach!” Oliver snapped, tossing the TV remote onto the sofa. “Emmas arriving with the kids tomorrow, and were not going anywhere!”
The words hit the room like a bucket of cold water. Eleanor stood frozen in the middle of the living room, a travel brochure of turquoise waters trembling in her hands.
*Bothering him?*
She set the brochure down slowly on the coffee table. Oliver slouched in his armchair, mindlessly flipping channels, the flickering screen casting shadows across his indifferent face.
“What did you say?” Her voice was quiet, but edged with something sharp.
“I said what I said.” He didnt look away from the telly. “Emmas bringing the kids and Peter. For a month. So forget the seaside and stop nagging.”
*A month.* The word hung in the air, heavy as lead. Eleanor felt something inside her twist into a knot.
“Oliver, weve planned this trip since January. Ive already booked it. Paid for it.” She spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child. “Ive waited all year”
“And I said *drop it*!” He smacked the table. “Family comes before your little whims!”
*Whims?* Her face flushed. The late nights budgeting, skipping new clothes to save for the trip, dreaming of salty air on her commutewas that a *whim*?
“What whims, Oliver?” She took a step toward him, her movements deliberate. “I work myself raggedat home, at the office. When was the last time I had a proper break?”
“Dont start with the theatrics.” He cranked the volume higher. “Emmas my sister. She hardly ever visits. End of discussion.”
*Hardly ever?* Eleanor scoffed. Emma descended on them every summer like a plagueher three children in tow, her husband Peter, a man who could empty the fridge and still ask for pudding. And every time, Eleanor became the unpaid housekeeper.
“Oliver, listen to me.” She perched on the sofa across from him. “I get that family matters. But Im a person too. I have needs”
“What, lying about like a sunbathing seal?” He smirked. “Floating in the water? Are you twelve?”
Eleanor stared at himthe man shed shared a roof with for fifteen years. When had his eyes turned so cold?
“Yes,” she said, standing. “I want to wake up to waves. Walk barefoot on sand. Be *me*not a maid for someone elses kids.”
“*Someone elses?*” Oliver shot up. “Theyre my niece and nephews!”
“Wholl wreck the house by noon!” she fired back. “Screaming, breaking things, demanding snacks! And Emma will lounge on the sofa moaning about her exhaustion!”
“How *dare* you!” Olivers face darkened. “Emmas a brilliant mum!”
“Brilliant mums dont raise terrors!” The words tumbled out like rocks down a cliff. “Remember last time? Smashing Nans vase, drawing on the walls, and the little one nearly setting the kitchen alight!”
“Kids will be kids”
“And what about *me*? Dont I count?” Something hot and fierce rose in her chest. “Im just meant to suffer because kids will be kids?”
Oliver gaped at heras if seeing her properly for the first time: hair wild, eyes blazing, fists clenched.
“Emmas coming tomorrow,” he said flatly. “Thats final.”
“Then *you* entertain them.” She marched to the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Upstairs.” She paused in the doorway. “To think.”
To think about living with a man who saw her as a glorified servant.
The bedroom door slammed. The house fell into thick, charged silencethe quiet before a storm.
Eleanor lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The crumpled brochure still clutched in her hand. The seashed imagined it so vividly. Dawn walks, the tang of salt, freedom from endless chores. Now? A month as a skivvy for spoiled children and their lazy parents.
*But what choice do I have?*
She drifted off to the sound of wind rustling the treeslike distant waves, the sea she wouldnt see this summer.
*Or would she?*
Morning brought grey rain and the growl of an SUV pulling up. Eleanor sipped tea by the window, watching the circus unfold.
First out was Emmableached blonde, clad in a neon tracksuit, screeching at her husband. “Peter, mind my new trainers! They cost a fortune!”
Petera balding man with the weary air of a beaten spanielhefted bags from the boot, lips pressed tight.
The children. Eleanor winced. Ten-year-old Mason splashed in a puddle, spraying mud everywhere. Seven-year-old Lottie wailed about a forgotten doll. Four-year-old Archie howledjust because.
“Ellie!” Oliver bellowed from the hall. “Theyre here! Come down!”
*Theyre here.* As if she hadnt noticed. As if the shrieks hadnt rattled the windows for five solid minutes.
She finished her tea and trudged downstairs. The hall was bedlam. Emma smothered Oliver in pink-lipsticked kisses; the kids ricocheted off suitcases; Peter scraped mud off his shoes in vain.
“Ellie, love!” Emma air-kissed her. “You look peaky! Been ill?”
Her perfumecheap vanilla and cigarettesmade Eleanors eyes water.
“Fine, thanks. How was the drive?”
“*Awful!*” Emma rolled her eyes. “Kids were monsters, Peter took three wrong turns, and I nearly melted. Wheres the AC? You *do* have AC, right?”
“In the bedroom,” Eleanor said coolly.
“And the lounge?” Emma barged past. “Were sleeping there. Peter snores like a tractor.”
*Of course you are.* Eleanor shot Oliver. He busied himself with luggage, avoiding her gaze.
“Mum, wheres the loo?” Mason tugged Emmas sleeve. “Im bursting!”
“Down the hall,” Eleanor said.
He bolted, leaving muddy footprints. Meanwhile, Lottie had seized a crystal candlestick.
“Lottie, put that back,” Eleanor said.
“Whats it for?” The girl turned it in her grubby hands. “Can I play with it?”
“No. Its breakable.”
“But Ill be *careful*!”
“Lottie,” Peter interjected weakly, “listen to Aunt Ellie.”
“Shes *not* my aunt!” Lottie snapped. “Were not even related!”
An awkward pause. Emma tittered.
“Kids, eh? So blunt! Dont take it personally, Ellie.”
*Blunt.* Eleanor rescued the candlestick and set it high on a shelf. Lottie pouted and flounced off.
“Mum, whats this hole?” Mason was jabbing a finger at a tiny gap in the wall (left by a removed picture hook).
“Its” Eleanor hesitated. “Nothing. Just an old nail hole.”
“Can I poke it?” His finger inched toward the gap.
“No!” She grabbed his wrist. “Its dangerous.”
“Why?” He squirmed. “Lemme go!”
“Mason,” Peter sighed, “dont hassle Aunt Ellie.”
“*Not my aunt!*” the kids chorused.
Archie, silent till now, erupted into wails.
“Oh, darling!” Emma scooped him up. “Whats wrong?”
“Wanna go *home*!” he sobbed. “Want Granny!”
“Were visiting Uncle Ollie and Aunt Ellie,” Emma cooed. “Remember?”
“*Hate it here!*” He buried his snotty face in her shoulder. “*Scary!*”
*Scary.* Eleanor surveyed the hallmuddy footprints, scattered luggage, a wailing child.
“Maybe theyre tired from the drive?” she offered. “Ill fix snacks.”
“Oh, *yes*!” Emma brightened. “Were *starving*! Whatve you got?”
*What have I got?* The fridge contents flashed in her mindenough for two, not six.
“Ill… sort something,” she mumbled.
“Brilliant!” Emma flounced toward the lounge. “Well get settled. Peter, bags! Kids, *dont touch anything!*”
A pointless order. Mason was already dismantling a bookshelf, Lottie cranked the telly to ear-splitting volume, and Archie smeared snot on the sofa.
Eleanor stood amid the chaos, something hot and unnameable bubbling inside. She looked at Oliver. He was grinning, hauling suitcases, the picture of cheer.
*A month of
