**Diary Entry**
“Oh, hello there, kingdom of chaos! Vicky, you’re home all the time. You could’ve at least washed the dishes,” Mum scolded the moment she stepped into the kitchen.
Vicky was just pulling the bedsheets out of the washing machine. They hung limp from her arms, cold and damp against her skin. Her fingers trembled from exhaustion, her back ached—it hurt just to straighten up.
In the other room, someone sniffled. Timmy. Woke up again.
“Mum, is that *really* all you can think about?” Vicky asked with a dull stare. “You know the kids are sick.”
Lydia set a bag of oranges on the table. She scanned the kitchen like an inspector and sighed in dismay.
“I just don’t get how you can live in this mess. You’ve only got *two* kids, not ten. And a husband.”
Vicky didn’t answer. Just draped the pillowcase over the radiator and slumped for a moment. She wanted to scream—tell Mum that two kids were plenty—but she didn’t have the energy left for shouting.
All her strength had gone into Timmy’s tantrums, Sofia’s fever, endless cooking, frantic nursery runs, and sleepless nights. It all weighed on her like a millstone. And the cherry on top? Mum’s obsession with cleanliness.
Vicky slipped into the hallway for a breath. Peeked into the bedroom. Sofia was asleep, damp curls stuck to her forehead. Timmy sat up in his cot, rubbing his fists into his eyes.
“I thought you came to help,” she hissed as she carried him back to the kitchen. “The dishes can wait—just sit with them.”
“Vicky, whose kids are they? Yours. I’m not a girl anymore. Easier for me to deal with plates than toddlers.”
“Mum! Can you forget your bloody dishes and stop hunting for dust? One’s burning up, the other’s been clingy all day! I haven’t slept in three nights. Oranges, lectures, mopping—none of it helps.”
Lydia pressed her lips tight. Nostrils flared.
“I’m helping how I can.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just pushing. Just like always.”
Vicky set Timmy in the playpen, grabbed the fruit bag, and shoved it at her.
“Take your oranges and go. Please.”
Even Timmy went quiet. Lydia gave her a withering look—then snatched the bag like it might explode. And left.
When the thudding in her chest eased, Vicky sank next to the playpen and hugged Timmy. He sneezed on her shoulder. She sighed. Perfect.
She’d always bitten her tongue before. Ground her teeth. Because… well, she’s Mum. That’s how it is. Plenty of her mates had relatives like this—mums, grandmas, mothers-in-law. Everyone puts up with it.
Vicky had hoped Mum might change. She never did.
Once, in Year 5, she’d placed third in the county spelling bee. Got a certificate and a bar of chocolate. Beaming, she’d handed it to Mum, ready to say it was partly thanks to her—but Mum cut her off.
“Look at your coat—filthy! Is this how you walk around? A girl should be neat.”
If a single “satisfactory” showed up in her reports, Mum blew up. When she mopped, Mum checked behind doors, under radiators.
Lydia never praised her. At best, silence. At worst, a jab. Compliments were rationed, and Vicky never got a ticket.
Dan, her husband, knew. He’d heard Lydia say things like,
“Why so many toys for them? You grew up fine with just wooden blocks.”
Vicky avoided her at meals. But when she had to—she braced for the critiques.
“The roast’s dry again. Overdone.”
And Mum asking how she was? Never happened.
That night, Vicky texted Dan to vent. He knew their daughter was ill. Knew she was drowning. Knew about her and Lydia. But he was away on business. At least he could listen.
“I sent her away,” she typed. “No help, just stress.”
“Good,” he replied instantly. “Should’ve done it sooner.”
It helped. Proof she’d done right. Needed to hear it from someone who saw Mum from the outside.
No rest came. She woke coughing. Still dark—just the TV’s red LED. Phone under the pillow. Half-five. Not even dawn.
Timmy fussed in his cot. Sofia whimpered. Vicky sat up. Her head pounded like a jackhammer had gone at it. Throat raw, legs weak.
She stumbled to the kitchen. Fridge: empty. Sour milk, scraped cheese, a few eggs. Two stale bread slices, a packet of pasta somewhere.
Breakfast might be cobbled together—but what then? Sofia’s meds were nearly gone. Vicky needed something, too. But how with the kids alone? No decent couriers for meds in their town.
“Need the chemist. No one to watch the kids. Dunno what to do,” she texted Dan.
“I’ll talk to Emily,” he replied half an hour later.
Vicky scoffed. Emily lived glued to her phone and laptop. Blog, shoots, editing, courses, her job. Too busy for a dog, let alone sick kids and a sister-in-law needing last-minute help.
She didn’t hope much—but two hours later, the doorbell rang. Emily stood there, smoothing dishevelled hair, fussing with her collar—but there.
“Water? Stuck in traffic—throat’s parched. Pour me some while I wash up and see Timmy.”
Vicky nearly gaped. Emily breezed in, bent over his cot, smiled, and touched his fingers.
“Who’s grumpy? Show me your toys. Or are you better at breaking Mum’s combs? Heard you snapped her favourite,” she teased, tickling him.
Like she’d known him forever. Not just seen him at holidays. Like there’d been no chill when she’d missed their wedding for work.
Soon, Emily fed him banana, glancing at her phone—probably emails.
“How’s Sofia?”
“In her room. Fever won’t drop. Won’t drink. Syrup’s nearly out.”
“Well, go then! Give me a list. Or go yourself—I’ll stay,” Emily huffed, more worry than anger in her tone.
When Vicky returned, Timmy slept in the playpen beside Emily, who sat cross-legged with her laptop.
“Put cartoons on. Knocked him out. Not ideal, but better than everyone screeching,” she said without looking up. “I’ll stay tonight. Do some work here, spread the rest out. We’ll manage.”
Something inside Vicky sank into soft snow—then melted. *We’ll manage.*
She remembered needing a scan in another town. Dan was away. Timmy wasn’t born yet, but even just Sofia was hard.
“Mum, can you take Sofia? Two days. Need tests.”
“Oh, Vicky, no. What if something happens? I’d miss it, then get blamed. Don’t do this to me.”
So she rented a flat, hauled bags and the pram. When the doctor mentioned possible surgery, her gut clenched. Please not emergency—she couldn’t afford that luxury now.
And now—this. A near-stranger, shoving her plans aside to help.
The happiness didn’t last.
Evening—doorbell. Peephole: Mum. Another bag. Smiling, but eyes sharp. Vicky sighed. Let her in. Couldn’t turn her away.
Bracing for more lectures—shaming her in front of Emily—she got worse.
“And who’s *this*?” Lydia whispered, toeing off her shoes.
“Emily. Dan’s sister. You met at his birthday,” Vicky murmured.
“Ah. Right.” Lips pursed. “So I’m thrown out, but strangers are welcome?”
Vicky blinked—then met her eyes. The silent support gave her courage. Even if Emily didn’t hear or stayed out of it—Vicky wasn’t alone. Even without a warm, loving mum.
“You know, Mum, she doesn’t judge me by dishes. Just helps. *How* I need. Unlike some.”
Lydia stiffened like she’d been zapped. Lips moved—no words. She just turned and left.
Vicky didn’t shut the door right away. But when the lock clicked—it felt like a whole chapter closed.
She knew her mum wasn’t pure villainy. She remembered Gran.
Eight years old, family at the cottage. Gran arrived late—next day. Vicky heard her berating Mum like a drill sergeant.
“Filth in the corners! Can’t even sweep?! And the windows! Those screens—*dusty*! People’ll say my daughter’s a slob!”
Back then, Vicky didn’t get why Mum scrubbed the sill silently, biting her lip. Didn’t get why Gran loShe deleted the message without replying, knowing some wounds never heal—only scab over, waiting for the next careless word to tear them open again.
