**The Perfect Dinner That Never Was**
The candles flickered softly on the table, their glow mirrored in the wine glasses like tiny stars. Emma had spent the entire week perfecting the menu—salmon tartlets, roasted duck, a rocket and parmesan salad—all from a cooking blog she’d studied religiously. Tonight was the night Oliver, her fiancé, would meet her parents, and she wanted everything to be perfect.
«Emma, you’re sure about the duck?» Oliver adjusted his tie as he stepped into the dining room. «My family always does roast beef for these occasions. Just feels more traditional.»
«Roast beef?» She laughed, but her fingers clenched the edge of the tablecloth. «Oliver, this isn’t a pub dinner. Duck is elegant. Mum will love it.»
«Well, if you say so,» he shrugged, though his eyes lingered on the spread with quiet doubt.
The doorbell shattered the silence. Emma rushed to answer, her parents standing on the doorstep—Margaret in a smart navy dress and Albert in his worn blazer, clutching a bottle of homemade elderflower wine.
«Emma darling, where’s your young man?» Margaret hugged her tightly, voice trembling. «We drove all the way from Dorset just for this!»
«Mum, Dad, come in.» Emma smiled, warmth flooding her chest. «Oliver, come meet them!»
Oliver stepped forward, his smile tight but polite as he shook Albert’s hand and kissed Margaret’s cheek. «Pleasure to meet you. Emma’s told me so much.»
«Oh, never mind that,» Margaret waved a hand. «What matters is you two suit each other. Our Emma’s got a strong will, but her heart’s pure gold.»
Emma’s cheeks warmed. Everything was going smoothly—until the second knock rattled her nerves like a hammer.
«Who’s that?» Oliver frowned. «I thought it was just your parents.»
«No idea.» She hesitated before opening the door.
There stood Aunt Beatrice, her eccentric aunt, in a garish emerald dress and a handbag from which a bottle of sloe gin poked out. Her eyes gleamed like a cat spotting prey.
«Surprise, love!» Beatrice threw her arms wide. «Heard you were introducing your young man tonight—couldn’t miss it! Where is he? Let me have a look!»
«Aunt Bea—» Emma froze. «We weren’t expecting—»
«Not expecting me?» Beatrice cackled, her voice filling the hallway. «Girl, you can’t have a proper family gathering without me! Come on, let’s see this fiancé of yours!»
Emma’s chest tightened. Aunt Beatrice was family legend—a retired literature teacher who fancied herself the guardian of «proper values» and never held back an opinion.
—
The dining room hummed, but not as Emma had imagined. Beatrice commandeered the head of the table, her sloe gin placed defiantly beside Margaret’s elderflower wine. Oliver, instead of backing Emma up, eagerly chatted with Beatrice as if she were the guest of honour.
«Oliver, what do you do for work?» Beatrice picked up a tartlet, then set it down with a scoff. «Emma, what’s this? Where’s the proper roast potatoes? In my day, a family dinner meant proper meat and gravy!»
«Aunt Bea, these are tartlets,» Emma forced a smile. «They’re fashionable now.»
«Fashionable?» Beatrice wrinkled her nose. «Fashion’s for daft girls glued to their screens. A real woman knows men need hearty food, not these… little leaves.»
Margaret cleared her throat. «Emma worked hard, Bea. It’s lovely. Isn’t it, Albert?»
«Yeah,» Albert nodded, though his eyes stayed fixed on the duck. «Just… could do with a bit more gravy, love.»
Emma’s face burned. Oliver, instead of defending her, nodded along.
«Beatrice is right,» he said. «My mum always said a good roast keeps a family strong.»
«Exactly!» Beatrice slapped the table. «Hear that, Emma? Listen to your man. He knows what’s what.»
Emma gripped her fork until her knuckles whitened. Six months ago, when Oliver proposed, he’d whispered, *I’ll always stand by you.* Now he smiled at Beatrice like a boy seeking approval.
«Oliver,» she said quietly, «you helped me pick this menu.»
«Well, yes,» he fiddled with his napkin. «But Beatrice has a point. Tradition matters.»
«Tradition!» Beatrice raised her glass. «Let’s drink to that! Emma, love, you’ve got a lot to learn about being a wife.»
The table laughed. The room pressed in on Emma like walls closing in.
—
By dessert, the evening had become Beatrice’s one-woman show. She lectured on «proper» wifely duties while Oliver nodded along, wide-eyed. Emma served the tiramisu, pretending not to notice Beatrice’s disdain.
«What’s this, then?» Beatrice prodded the cream. «Back in my day, we served treacle tart. Something with weight to it, not this frothy nonsense.»
«Aunt Bea, it’s tiramisu,» Emma said evenly. «People love it.»
«People?» Beatrice rolled her eyes. «In *our* family, we respect tradition. Oliver, you’d prefer treacle tart, wouldn’t you?»
Oliver hesitated. «Well, treacle tart’s classic. But this is… fine.»
«*Fine?*» Emma turned to him. «You begged me to make this! You said it was your favourite!»
«Emma, don’t make a scene,» he muttered. «I’m just being polite.»
«Polite?» Emma slammed the tray down—a wineglass toppled, staining the cloth. «You’ve let her insult me all night, and *that’s* being polite?»
«Emma, calm down,» Margaret dabbed at the spill. «Beatrice didn’t mean—»
«Didn’t she?» Emma stepped toward her aunt. «She barged in, ridiculed everything I did, and now she’s lecturing me on how to live! And you, Oliver—you just *agree*?»
Beatrice rose, her dress rustling like a battle flag.
«You’re forgetting yourself,» she said coldly. «I came because *family* matters. But you, with your fancy dinners and your online nonsense, think you can ignore what’s proper?»
«Proper?» Emma laughed, tears pricking her eyes. «This isn’t tradition—it’s control. I planned this night for *months* so Oliver and my parents could bond. And you turned it into a circus!»
«Emma, that’s enough,» Oliver stood, jaw tight. «Beatrice just wants what’s best.»
«What’s best?» Emma looked at him, heart cracking. «You promised you’d stand with me. Now you’re siding with *her*?»
Beatrice gasped. «Oliver, is this the woman you want? No respect for her elders!»
Emma stepped to the table, grabbed her grandmother’s porcelain plate—her housewarming gift—and hurled it to the floor. Shards scattered like her hopes for the evening.
«Here’s your bloody tradition,» she said, staring at Beatrice. «Enjoy your perfect dinner.»
Silence. Margaret gasped. Oliver paled.
«Emma—what are you *doing?*» he stammered.
«Leaving.» She tossed her apron on the chair. «Celebrate without me.»
Margaret caught her at the door. «Darling, please—»
«Mum,» Emma hugged her. «This isn’t about Aunt Bea. It’s about me. I’m tired of being who everyone *expects* me to be.»
She stepped into the cold night, breathing deep. In her bag was the ring Oliver slid onto her finger three months ago—she wasn’t sure it belonged there anymore.
Behind her, the dining room lay in ruins: guttering candles, shattered china, a silence louder than any argument. Oliver stood at the window, watching—but he didn’t follow.
The street was empty, lamplights flickering like dying flames. Emma didn’t know if she’d go back—but for the first time all night, she felt free.
**Lesson learned:** A house built on others’ expectations will never feel like home. Some traditions are just excuses to clip wings. Better to stand alone than kneel for approval.