“Just Want a Bit of Peace and Quiet”
—Morning, muttered Dana as she shuffled into the office and slumped into her chair. She flicked on her computer, glanced out the window where the grey clouds clung to the sky like a bad mood, and didn’t so much as acknowledge her colleagues.
—Morning, chirped Victoria and Emily, exchanging a look. Normally, Dana was sunshine in human form—the sort who’d brighten the whole office with her cheer. But today? Lips pressed tight, she might as well have been a storm cloud draped in a cardigan.
The office trio consisted of Dana, 30, married, mum to one well-behaved lad; Victoria, 36, two kids, the sort who could power a small village with her energy; and Emily, 27, living with her boyfriend, blissfully free of wedding plans. Victoria, being the eldest, was also the unofficial ringleader of coffee breaks.
—Fancy a cuppa? She cracked first, already heading for the kettle. —Won’t be a tick.
—Go on, then, Emily agreed. Dana said nothing.
Victoria returned with three mugs, doling them out like a tea-bringing superhero. Dana gave a nod that could’ve been mistaken for a twitch. Emily, ever the peacemaker, tried to jolly things along:
—Cheers, Vicky! You’re an absolute gem.
They giggled. Dana managed a ghost of a smile. Victoria, never one for suspense, exhaled dramatically:
—Alright, spill. Did we offend you, or is this a home-front situation?
—Not you, Dana sighed. —Just… family. Well, next-door family.
—Not Louise again? Emily groaned. —Honestly, love, why do you let her get to you?
—How can I not? We’re practically sharing a loo. Two houses, one garden. My Mike acts deaf whenever she starts, and his brother Dave’s alright. But Louise? Absolute nightmare. Yesterday I finally snapped. Told her exactly what I thought. Now I don’t know how we’ll even look at each other.
When Dana married Michael, his dad had built two identical houses in the same garden—one for Dave, the eldest, and one for Mike. Newlywed bliss lasted all of five minutes before tragedy struck: Michael and Dave’s parents died in a car crash. The brothers were left with their families, side by side, whether they liked it or not.
At first, it worked. Both women had babies around the same time. Life hummed along in parallel. But slowly, Dana realised she and Louise were polar opposites.
Louise was loud, brash, always in a flap about something. Dana? Quiet, happiest with a book, a cuppa, and the gentle hum of the radio. Michael was cut from the same cloth—steady, calm. They fit.
—I’ve never been one for big crowds. My family’s my world, Dana had confessed once. —Just Mike and our boy. That’s enough.
Louise, of course, disagreed.
—We’re all family! We should do everything together. What’s with the hiding away?
If only it stopped at nagging. Louise acted like she owned the whole garden. Boundaries? Nonexistent. She’d barge in unannounced, even when Dana was knee-deep in nappies or bedtime stories.
—Oops! Thought you’d be up! Never mind! Slam.
Weekend mornings, when Dana stole a rare quiet moment with her coffee, Louise would materialise at the window like a poorly timed sitcom neighbour:
—Coffee? Pour me one, I’ll be right in! And suddenly, Dana’s solitude was hijacked.
—Sometimes I just want to breathe, she’d tell Michael. —But she’s like a human foghorn.
Speaking up felt rude. Proper Brits didn’t make scenes. Even Dave, Louise’s husband, had scolded her:
—Leave them alone, Lou. You’d throw a wobbly if they did this to you.
Then came the sushi incident. After a gruelling week, Dana treated the family to takeaway—their son had aced his school term. The second she stepped out to collect it, Louise exploded from next door:
—Sushi?! You didn’t tell me! Why am I always last to know? Cue a full-blown tirade in the garden, complete with arm-waving. Michael tried to mediate, but Louise was in full theatrical mode. Dave hauled her inside, though the echoes of her tantrum lingered. Dana shut the door and finally let the tears out.
—Since when do I need her permission to order dinner? It’s our house, our life! She’s always in our business, always shouting. We just want peace.
The next morning, she looked like she’d wrestled a hedgehog. Her colleagues listened, horrified.
—Ten years of this? Victoria gasped. —I’d have lost my marbles by now.
—You’ve got your own family. That’s what matters. The rest? Not your circus, not your monkeys, Emily said firmly.
—Yeah. Dana exhaled. —I’ve always bit my tongue. Always been polite. But no more. Next time, I’m putting my foot down. Manners be damned.
Outside, the rain drizzled on. But for the first time in ages, Dana felt lighter. She finally understood: she deserved quiet. She deserved peace. Even if it meant telling Louise to pipe down—once and for all.
