The kitchen was a battlefield, strewn with the debris of a long day. The moment Emily’s mother, Margaret, stepped inside, her sharp gaze cut through the mess like a blade.
*”Oh, lovely—just lovely,”* Margaret muttered, her voice dripping with disdain. *”You’re home all day, Emily. Was it too much to ask for you to wash a single dish?”*
Emily was elbow-deep in damp bedsheets, hauling them from the washing machine. The fabric hung limply from her arms, cold and heavy, seeping exhaustion into her bones. Her fingers trembled, her back ached, and even straightening up sent a jolt of pain shooting through her.
In the next room, a small whimper broke the silence. *Timothy. Again.*
*”Is that really all you care about?”* Emily’s voice was flat, drained of fight. *”The kids are sick, Mum. You know that.”*
Margaret set a bag of oranges on the counter, her critical stare sweeping the kitchen like an auditor. She let out a weary sigh.
*”I just don’t understand how you can live like this. Two children—two!—not an army. And a husband, for heaven’s sake.”*
Emily didn’t answer. She draped a pillowcase over the radiator and hunched there for a moment, as if the weight of the world had settled on her shoulders. She wanted to scream—to tell her mother that two children *were* an army when they were ill and needy and she had nothing left to give.
But the fight had been drained from her by Timothy’s tantrums, Sophie’s fever, the endless cooking, the frantic nursery runs, and sleepless nights that stretched into infinity. It all hung around her neck like an anchor. And now, like icing on the cake, her mother had arrived with her relentless lectures on cleanliness.
Emily retreated to the hallway, desperate for even a moment’s reprieve. She peeked into the bedroom. Sophie was asleep, sweat-damp curls clinging to her forehead. Timothy, however, was already sitting up in his cot, drowsily rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.
*”I thought you came to help,”* Emily hissed, returning to the kitchen with her son in her arms. *”The dishes can wait. Just sit with them for five minutes.”*
*”They’re *your* children, Em,”* Margaret snapped. *”I’m not some young girl anymore. I can handle dishes better than toddlers.”*
*”Mum!”* Emily’s voice cracked. *”For one second, can you forget about your bloody plates and stop hunting for dust? One’s burning up, the other’s been clinging to me all day. I haven’t slept in three nights. Your oranges—your *cleaning*—none of it helps!”*
Margaret’s lips pinched tight. Her nostrils flared slightly—a silent storm brewing.
*”I’m helping the only way I know how.”*
*”No. You’re *not* helping. You’re just making it worse. Like always.”*
Emily lowered Timothy into his playpen, then snatched up the bag of oranges and thrust it at her mother.
*”Take them and go. Please.”*
For once, even Timothy went silent. Margaret’s eyes narrowed as she looked from Emily to the bag. Then, with a sharp jerk—as if it were a bomb about to detonate—she ripped it from her daughter’s hands and left.
When the tightness in her chest finally loosened, Emily sank to the floor beside the playpen and pulled Timothy close. He sneezed against her shoulder. She sighed. *Just what I needed.*
She had always swallowed it before—the stinging remarks, the relentless nitpicking. She’d gritted her teeth, told herself that’s just how mothers were. Her friends had the same stories—mothers, grandmothers, mothers-in-law. *Everyone just puts up with it.*
She’d hoped, foolishly, that Margaret might change one day. But she never did.
Childhood had been no different. There was one memory that never faded—ten-year-old Emily, beaming, holding out her trophy from the county spelling bee. A bar of chocolate for third place. She’d wanted to say, *This is thanks to you, too.*
But before she could speak—
*”You’ve got mud *all* over your coat, Emily! Walking around like that—what will people think? You’re a *young lady*—start acting like one.”*
One B on a report card was enough for Margaret to launch into a tirade. When Emily mopped the floors, her mother would get on her knees to inspect the baseboards.
Praise was a currency Margaret never spent on her. At best, silence. At worst, another jab.
James, Emily’s husband, knew. He’d heard it himself—Margaret’s endless critiques.
*”Why do the children need so many toys? *We* got by with just jigsaw puzzles and wooden blocks.”*
Emily avoided inviting her to dinner when she could. But when she had to, she braced herself—
*”The roast’s dry again. Overcooked.”*
Mum asking how her day had been? If she was *tired*? *Never.*
That night, Emily texted James, needing to vent. He knew how ill Sophie was. Knew how hard it was. Knew how Margaret was. But he was away on business—useless, except as a sounding board.
*”I kicked her out,”* she typed. *”Still no help—just more stress.”*
*”Good,”* he replied instantly. *”About time.”*
A tiny weight lifted. *Confirmation.* She wasn’t mad. Someone else saw it too.
Sleep never came. Emily woke coughing. The room was still dark, the TV’s standby light a dim red glow. She fumbled for her phone. *5:30 AM.*
Timothy was squirming in his cot. Beside him, Sophie whimpered in her sleep.
Emily sat up. Her head throbbed as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Her throat burned. Her legs were lead.
She staggered to the kitchen and yanked open the fridge. Nearly empty. Sour milk, a scrap of cheese, a few eggs. Somewhere, there were stale bread heels and a half-empty packet of pasta.
Breakfast might be scraped together—but what then? Sophie’s medicine was running low. Emily needed something for herself, too. But how could she leave two sick children alone? Delivery wasn’t reliable here, especially for prescriptions.
*”Need pharmacy. No one to watch them. No clue what to do,”* she texted James.
*”I’ll ask Alice,”* he replied half an hour later.
Emily almost laughed. *Alice?* Her sister-in-law was practically *fused* to her laptop. She had her blog, her editing, her online courses—she couldn’t even commit to a *dog*, let alone drop everything for a sick niece and nephew.
But two hours later, the doorbell rang.
Alice stood on the step, smoothing her windblown hair, twisting her scarf nervously—but she was *there.*
*”Tap water, please,”* she blurted. *”Throat’s like sand after the drive. Pour me one while I wash up, then I’ll take Timothy.”*
Emily’s jaw nearly dropped. Alice breezed past her, crouched by the cot, and grinned at the grumpy toddler.
*”Oh-ho, who’s this grumpy little lord? Going to show me your toys? Or—*wait*—are you the official breaker of Mummy’s hairbrushes? I *hear* you murdered her favourite.”*
As if she’d known him his whole life. As if the few holiday visits hadn’t been stiff and awkward. As if she *hadn’t* missed their wedding for a work crisis.
Soon, Alice was feeding Timothy banana slices while firing off emails.
*”Sophie?”* she asked between texts.
*”Fever won’t break. Won’t drink. And the medicine’s almost gone.”*
Alice’s head snapped up. *”Then *go*! Give me a list, or just go—I’ve got them.”*
When Emily returned, Timothy was asleep in his playpen, curled against Alice’s side as she typed one-handed on her laptop.
*”Put cartoons on. Knocked him right out. Not ideal, but better than everyone screaming,”* Alice said without looking up. *”I’ll stay tonight. Shifted a few deadlines. We’ll manage.”*
Something inside Emily softened, warm and sudden. *We’ll manage.*
She remembered another time—when she’d needed an MRI in another city. James had been away then, too. Just Sophie to worry about—but even that was too much.
*”Mum, can you take Sophie for two days? I’ve got tests—”*
*”Oh, Emily, absolutely *not*. What if something happens? I’d be to blame. Don’t put that on me.”*
She’d rented a flat instead—hauling a backpack and a pram through unfamiliar streets. WhenAnd as Emily watched Alice gently adjust the blanket over Timothy, she realized that sometimes, family wasn’t about who gave you life—but who helped you live it.
