Poppy was sitting where I’d sat when Mum asked for the extra payment. “You make it sound like we were taking holidays with it.”
“You were spending money you could only spare because I believed you needed mine.”
I hated how badly I wanted one of them to say that plainly, without making me drag it out.
“And the frozen account?” I asked Mum.
“There wasn’t a problem with the bank.” Her voice had gone quiet. “I paid the deposit without asking you. I thought we could replace it.”
“My invoice is due in less than three weeks. How?”
Poppy said the salon would earn it back. I asked for a plan that didn’t depend on customers she didn’t have yet.
She fetched a printed reservation contract from her bag, flattening its curled corner against the table. “These premises won’t come up again.”
I read the cancellation clause twice.
Cancellation before Friday: reservation deposit refundable in full.
It was Wednesday.
“You can get every penny back,” I said.
Poppy put her hand over the page. “And lose the place.”
For a moment I pictured her empty salon. I knew she’d already chosen where the mirrors would go. Then I pictured explaining to our wedding supplier that my sister’s mirrors mattered more than our bill.
“Cancel it.”
Mum reached for my wrist. “Can’t we agree on instalments?”
“No. You already made a payment plan for my money without me.”
Poppy cried while she wrote the cancellation email. I stayed beside her, feeling cruel and refusing to leave. She sent it before we got up from the table. The confirmation arrived the following morning: Reservation cancelled. Full deposit refund authorised. Premises released.
She showed me the screen without speaking.
When the refund cleared several days later, Mum called me over. She showed me the £18,000 credit in her account, then made the transfer while I sat opposite her. I waited until the full amount appeared in my own balance.
It was back before the wedding invoice fell due. I felt relief first, then an exhaustion that made it hard to stand.
“There won’t be another mortgage payment from me,” I said.
Dad started to speak, then stopped.
“You own the house. You owe the mortgage. Theo’s rent covers it. That has to be your arrangement now.”
“We understand,” Mum said.
I waited for Dad.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s finished.”
Poppy told me she would have to start looking again, later, with less money. I didn’t offer to help with that either.
A fortnight later, Mum told me they’d cancelled their anniversary cruise to cut spending. She paused afterwards. I knew that pause. Usually I filled it with an offer.
“I’m sorry you’re disappointed,” I said, and left it there.
We still spoke. We could discuss the wedding, the weather, whether Dad’s knee was improving. They kept their house and their tenant. They no longer had access to my savings.
I kept our wedding small. Recovering the fund didn’t make me want more guests or taller flowers. In our budget, I moved the £850 I’d been sending my parents into our honeymoon savings instead.
Choosing our trip while they gave up theirs did feel partly like punishment. I couldn’t make that feeling disappear. I also wasn’t going to pay £850 a month to avoid it.
After paying the wedding invoice, I folded the receipt into our folder and laid our two passports beside it.
