Maria slammed her hand on the kitchen table, sending teacups clinking as she declared, «Right! Emily and Anthony are coming tomorrow, then my parents the next day, and Lucy with the kids will barge in on Saturday! What are we showing them, hmm? What are we showing?»
Victor glanced up from the newspaper, squinting at their familiar kitchen. «What’s the problem? The place is fine. It’s just a house.»
«Just a house?!» Maria shot up, pacing. «Those wallpaper seams need fixing, the fireplaces are flaking, the hallway floor’s worn thin! The fridge is ancient, and the living room furniture—» She threw her hands up.
Victor folded the paper, studying her. She’d been wound up like this for ages. «Love, they’re coming to visit us, not to a gallery. It’s all homey, our own. Why’s that a shame?»
She sat across from him, gripping the table’s edge. «You don’t get it. Emily’s married to that director bloke now. They’re living the dream—brand-new extension, a Range Rover, a countryside cottage. What about us? Married three decades and still like students?!»
Victor’s chest tightened. He’d always thought they were fine, content. He was a foreman at the factory, and Maria taught at the primary school. They had enough, even saved a bit. «Love, we’re not skint. We’re good. Why the bother with all this show-offery?»
«Show-offery?» Maria’s eyes glittered. «It’s show-offery when people live decent lives? You know what my mum said over the phone? ‘I hope you’ve got decent bedlinen this time. Last visit was a disgrace.’ That’s what she said!»
Victor dropped his gaze. Her parents had never approved of him, always thinking Maria deserved more. But Maria had always stood by them, hadn’t she?
«Alright,» he muttered. «What do you want to do?»
Maria perked up, eyes bright. «Finally, some sense! We’ve saved up. Let’s at least fix the kitchen and hallway. New flooring, new fridge.»
«But that’s a fortune. We were saving for the cottage in the Lakes,» he protested.
«Cottage later. We need the house in order. It’s awkward with people!»
He nodded, though his chest ached. The cottage had been their dream for years—a cozy place to grow veggies on weekends. But if this mattered to her…
The next day, they raced to shops. Maria darted between wallpaper sections, picking the priciest designs with gold swirls.
«Maybe something simpler?» Victor hinted, scanning the price tags.
«No! I want it to look nice. No one’s to be embarrassed!»
They bought the patterned paper, adhesive, luxury vinyl flooring with a wood effect. In the next store, she lingered over fridges, settling on a silvery one with a screen.
«It’s twice the price of a regular one,» he muttered.
«Who cares? It’s sleek! Look, it even makes ice!» Maria ran her hand over the door like it was a fur coat.
Their three-year savings vanished in a day. Victor paid in silence, each item pushing the cottage further from reach.
At home, chaos began. Victor took leave work, pasting walls, laying flooring. Maria manicured the flat, dusting already-shiny objects, repositioning furniture.
«Victor, a new sofa cover?» she asked one night, as they ate in a pile of paint cans.
«No more money,» he sighed.
«Just a cover! The sofa’s looking threadbare.»
He stared at the sofa—ten years of evenings, soft and worn, once dubbed «the hug corner» by Maria, who laughed about it «keeping our love warm.»
«Fine,» he said.
The renovations dragged on. Maria kept finding new flaws: outdated curtains, plain tablecloths, «too boring» crockery.
«You’re mad,» he snapped. «They’re not coming to a museum!»
«Exactly!» she cried. «Emily will inspect everything and tell my mum. And my mum already thinks I made a bad choice by marrying you. I need to prove we’re not second-rate!»
«But we are second-rate?» Victor stammered. «I thought you didn’t mind before…»
Maria turned away, stacking groceries in the cupboard.
«I didn’t understand things before,» she mumbled.
Emily and Anthony arrived. Maria greeted them in a dress bought especially, her new kitchen gleaming, fridge humming, sofa drapped in beige covers.
«Oh, it looks great!» Emily gushed. «Did you renovate?»
«Just a refresh,» Maria said, beaming.
Over supper, Emily rambled about their new house, their holiday by the sea, Anthony’s «side hustle» and income.
«You don’t take holidays?» Anthony asked Victor.
«Renovations this year,» he said.
«Ah, you’ve invested a bit,» Anthony mused. «Though you could’ve spent more. We had a designer—cost a pretty penny, but the results are top-tier!»
Maria paled, bustling to offer more food.
After the guests retired, Maria wept in the kitchen.
«He said, ‘Could’ve spent more’! I tried so hard and he doesn’t even care!»
Victor pulled her into a hug. «Love, his opinion means nothing. We’re doing this for us.»
«You don’t get it,» she sniffed. «He’ll tell Emily we’re lame. And she’ll tell my mum…»
The next day, Maria’s parents arrived. Her dad surveyed in silence. Her mum ran a finger across shelves, checking for dust.
«Nice fridge,» she approved. «And the bedlinen? Not the same as last time?»
Maria hurried to show the new sets.
«Sensible,» her mum allowed. «Before, it was a disgrace…»
Victor stepped onto the balcony for a smoke—though he’d quit five years ago, he borrowed a neighbor’s. Children played below, a dog barked. Life went on. But inside, Maria was locked in a silent game he didn’t get.
At night, Maria fretted. «Mum still isn’t happy. Says the furniture’s old, the wallpaper could’ve been better.»
«Love, let’s take them to the park. Remember how we used to?»
«Boring. They’re guests. And I’m knackered after work.»
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling. When did Maria start saying «knackered»? They used to explore weekends, talk, dream. Now it was all about «impressions.»
Lucy arrived with the kids. The children turned over the fridge, jumped on the sofa.
«Careful!» Maria shrieked. «You’ll ruin the cover!»
Lucy raised an eyebrow. «Maria, it’s just kids!»
Maria bristled. «I like order.»
Over dinner, a juice spill hit the tablecloth. Maria nearly lost it, scrubbing like her life depended on it.
«It’s cloth, Maria! Just wash it,» Lucy sighed.
«Special purchase!» Maria fumed.
Victor saw Lucy eyeing the kids. The flat once buzzed with laughter—now it was all rules.
After the guests left, the place felt emptier. Maria folded laundry, adjusting the sofa cover.
«At least no one was ashamed,» she said.
«Remember before, when we’d host guests?» Victor asked, squeezing her hand. «Simple meals, chatter till late… Just us?»
«You’re romanticizing,» Maria snapped. «We were young, silly. Didn’t know about leaving a good impression.»
«All I thought was being true to ourselves,» he said quietly.
Maria looked at him, something foreign in her eyes—weariness, irritation, wanting to be someone else. «But who am I? A schoolteacher married to a foreman. Normal flat, normal holidays. Emily’s living! Proper, decent!»
«But you always said we were happy,» he said.
«Used to say things,» she muttered, stacking napkins.
At work, Victor couldn’t shake it. Had they been happy this whole time? Had she been pretending?
Back home, he met his neighbor, Mr. Baker, who’d once played dominoes with him.
«Maria’s become… tense,» Mr. Baker said. «Met her in the shop. Ranted about her new fridge for half an hour. Used to be easygoing.»
«Work stress,» Victor shrugged.
«Not that. Just… she don’t match her own life, y’see. My dead wife once got caught up about our furniture being old, comparing to neighbors. Then she said, ‘Bobby, what’s the point? We’re fine!’»
At home, Maria announced: «Emily’s on the phone again. Says our flat’s decent but could’ve splurged more. They’re building a new house and want us to drop by!»
Victor poured tea in silence as Maria gushed about Emily’s plans, then added: «Mum said she told her friend our flat’s good, but the sofa’s still ancient.»
«Love,» he said softly, «remember when we bought this sofa?»
Maria blinked. «A decade ago. What of it?»
«You spent a month choosing it. Said you wanted a sofa for snuggling, for watching films. When it arrived, you lay down, said, ‘This is our sofa. It’ll remember all our talks, all our dreams.’»
Maria blushed. «I didn’t know it’d get so worn.»
«It’s not worn,» he said. «You just see it through someone else’s eyes now.»
«Whose eyes?»
«Everyone’s. You’re seeing our home through Emily’s, your mum’s, the neighbors’. It all feels wrong.»
She turned to the window. «But what if they’re right? What if I’m asking too little?»
«What do you *really* want?»
She stared at the darkening street. «I don’t know. I used to—just being with you, maybe kids, a quiet, warm home. Now… now it feels like too little. Like I’m missing something.»
«Which is?»
«Nothing! That’s the problem. But when I see Emily, it feels like I’m living wrong. Like I could be… more.»
Victor held her, her sobs soaking his shirt. «Remember last autumn? We walked in the park, you collected autumn leaves, said it was the most beautiful time, that people don’t see the beauty around them?»
«Remember,» she sniffed.
«And our cottage in the Lakes? You wanted apple trees for the grandkids to climb.»
«Grandkids are too late,» she whispered. «I’m over the age.»
«Maybe not. Maybe kids from the neighborhood. Or the nephews. The dream was ours, not theirs.»
Maria lifted her head. «But we spent the money.»
«Let’s save again. Not overnight, but we can.»
«But what if I lose my head again? Buy something else?»
He smiled, ruffling her hair. «Then I’ll remind you of the apple trees. And that real happiness isn’t a fridge with a screen, but a home that loves you just the way you are.»
Maria clung to him. «Vic, let’s not invite anyone else over?»
«Not even Lucy?»
«Maybe—yes. She loves us just as we are.»
«Your sister?»
Maria paused. «She can come if she wants. But I’m not trying to please her anymore. She’s got her own life. We’ve got ours.»
They stood in the kitchen, arms around each other, as lights flickered on in the quiet street. In each house, people with their own joys and struggles, dreams and doubts. Somewhere, someone learning to be happy just because someone was home.
«Love,» he whispered, «let’s keep the sofa. We’ll take off the cover.»
«Okay,» she said. «And no more changes. We were fine. Just forgot for a while.»