“No, William! That’s final!” Charlotte slammed her fist on the table, rattling the teacups in their saucers. Her husband’s father looked up from his paper, stunned.
“Lottie, what on earth’s got into you?”
“What’s got into me? I’m not your maid!” She rose to her feet, hands on her hips. “Your mother bosses me about all day as if I were hired help, and you just sit there!”
Margaret Wright, her mother-in-law, walked into the kitchen just as tempers flared. “What’s all this shouting about? The whole street can hear you, Lottie!”
“There! That’s exactly what I mean!” Charlotte jabbed a finger toward Margaret. “Run to the shops, Lottie. Cook the roast, Lottie. Scrub the floors, Lottie. Am I your skivvy now?”
Margaret pursed her lips and lowered herself into a chair. “And who else should do it? I’m not as young as I was. William’s at work all hours. You’re young, healthy…”
“I work too!” Charlotte cut in. “On my feet all day at the bakery, legs aching, and when I come home, it’s more cooking, more cleaning!”
William rubbed the back of his neck, torn between his wife and his mother. “Mum, maybe Charlotte’s got a point—”
“Oh, so it’s like that now, is it?” Margaret’s voice turned sharp. “Taking her side over your own mother? Your *real* family?”
“Her side?” Charlotte’s voice shook. “I’m your son’s wife, God help me! I could be carrying his children one day, and you talk about me like some stranger?”
Margaret turned away, staring out the window. William stood and moved to his wife. “Easy now, love. Mum’s elderly. It’s hard for her…”
“And it’s not hard for me?” Charlotte pulled away. “Listen, Will. I’ll say it plain: either things change, or I’m gone.”
Silence fell. Margaret turned slowly. “Gone where? Back to your parents? They’d welcome you with open arms, would they?”
Charlotte paled. Her father hadn’t forgiven her for marrying beneath their expectations, and her mother never stood up to him.
“I’ll manage,” she snapped.
“Don’t be daft!” William grabbed her hand. “We’re family. We can sort this out.”
“Exactly. Sort it out.” Charlotte wrenched free. “So here’s how it’s going to be.”
Margaret scoffed. “Conditions, is it? In *my* house?”
“*Our* house!” Charlotte corrected. “Tell her, Will!”
William hesitated. The deed was in his mother’s name—inherited from her parents. But they’d lived here since the wedding, with nowhere else to go.
“Mum, technically—”
“No *technically* about it!” Margaret snapped. “My house, my rules!”
“Fine.” Charlotte yanked open a drawer, pulling out a notebook. “First rule: I cook dinner every other night—Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays. The rest, you or Will handle.”
“Why should I?” Margaret’s voice rose.
“Because I’m not your chef!” Charlotte scribbled. “Second: we take turns cleaning. One week me, one week you.”
“You’ve gone mad!” Margaret shot to her feet. “William, are you hearing this?”
William kept his head down. He understood why Charlotte was boiling over, even if siding with her stung.
“Third,” Charlotte continued, “no one barges into our room uninvited. And my things stay untouched.”
That was the sorest point. Margaret had a habit of “tidying”—rifling through drawers, reading letters from Charlotte’s friends, even rearranging their furniture.
“And if I want to hoover?” Margaret challenged.
“You knock. You ask.” Charlotte wrote firmly. “Fourth: once a week, Will and I go out—just us. Cinema, pub, whatever.”
“That’s too far!” Margaret’s face flushed. “Stealing my boy away!”
“I’m not stealing him! I want time with my husband! Normal couples do that!”
William finally spoke up. “It’s not unreasonable, Mum. We’re young. We need a bit of fun…”
“Oh, so it’s all against me now!” Margaret threw up her hands. “Go on, then! Write your little list!”
Charlotte studied her. Beneath the defiance, the woman sounded… hurt.
“Margaret, this isn’t about hating you. It’s about living peacefully.”
“Peacefully!” Margaret sank back into her chair. “Peace is when a son forgets his own mother?”
Charlotte set down the pen. “No one’s forgetting you. But I need space here too. I’m not an outsider.”
“Not an outsider, but not *family*,” Margaret muttered. “Blood’s blood. You came from nowhere. Here today, gone tomorrow…”
William stood. “That’s enough! Charlotte’s my wife. That makes her your daughter. Full stop.”
“Daughter…” Margaret exhaled. “Fine. If she’s a daughter, daughters mind their mothers.”
“They do—not like servants,” Charlotte shot back.
The quiet stretched. William paced. Charlotte flipped her notebook. Margaret gazed out at the neighbour’s washing line.
“Mrs. Higgins down the lane,” Margaret said suddenly, “her boy married last year. Sweet girl, that one. Respectful. Knows her place.”
“And I don’t?” Charlotte asked.
“Don’t know. Making demands…”
“It’s not disrespect. It’s clarity.”
Margaret turned. “So I just sit about like a potted plant, do I?”
Charlotte almost smiled. “Hardly. You’ve your garden, your knitting. I’m talking about *my* life.”
William stopped. “Mum, she’s right. We’ll pitch in. Me too.”
“You?” Margaret blinked. “You’ve never boiled an egg in your life!”
“I’ll learn!” William said stoutly. “Charlotte’ll teach me.”
She met his eyes, grateful. Finally, backup.
“Honest, Will?”
“Course! Peeling spuds, grating carrots—how hard can it be?”
“You’ll be hopeless,” Margaret grumbled—but the edge in her voice had dulled.
“Won’t be. He’ll help.”
Margaret studied Charlotte. “If I agree… what do I get?”
“What do you mean?”
“Deals go both ways.”
Charlotte hesitated. “What do you want?”
“Call me Maggie. Not *Margaret* like some headmistress.”
“Alright… Maggie.”
“And tea with me evenings. William’s glued to the telly. I’ve no one to talk to.”
Charlotte softened. Maybe the woman wasn’t a tyrant—just lonely.
“Deal. But not every night. Some days I’m knackered.”
“Fair.”
William exhaled. “Thank Christ. Thought we’d have World War III there.”
“World War III’s over,” Charlotte said. “Truce now.”
“Peace,” Margaret corrected—no, *Maggie* now. “Might take getting used to, being called that.”
“You’ll manage. You’re not *that* old.”
“Not old, but worn out. Knees ache, blood pressure…”
Charlotte looked closer. The woman *did* seem weary. Maybe the chores weren’t malice—just exhaustion.
“Maggie, have you seen a doctor?”
“Pills don’t help.”
“What if we hired a cleaner? Just once a week, for the heavy work?”
William frowned. “Where’d we get the money?”
“I’ll pick up extra shifts.”
“I’ll take odd jobs weekends,” William added. “Tom said he could use a hand with his mate’s garage.”
Maggie stared. “You’d do that… for me?”
“For all of us,” Charlotte said. “Easier on me too. You could rest.”
“Not a bad idea,” William admitted. “Should’ve thought of it sooner.”
“Money was tighter before,” Maggie murmured. “Now you’re both working…”
Charlotte stood, heading for the stove. “Right. Supper. Tomorrow, fresh start.”
“Fresh start…” Maggie echoed. “Might be for the best.”
Dinner passed quietly—even pleasantly. Work gossip, neighbourhood drama, weekend plans. Charlotte mentioned a new bakery girl; William, changes at the warehouse. Maggie complained about next door’s tabby trampling her marigolds.
“Maggie,” Charlotte ventured, “what if you got a cat? Company.”
“A cat?” Maggie blinked. “Who’d look after it?”
“We would. It’d be yours.”
“Mine…” A slow smile crept in. “Haven’t had something of my own in years.”
“You’ve got us,” Charlotte said. “Family.”
“Family…” Maggie’s eyes gleamed. “Suppose I have.”
Later, in their room, Charlotte sat brooding. DemThe next morning, as sunlight spilled into the kitchen, Charlotte cracked eggs into a bowl while Maggie hummed softly beside her—neither of them needing to say a word.
