The shrill ringing of the doorbell announced an unexpected visitor. Lucy tossed her apron aside, wiped her hands, and went to answer. Her daughter stood on the doorstep with a young man in tow. Lucy stepped aside to let them in.
“Hi, Mum,” the girl pecked her on the cheek. “Meet Jake. He’s going to live with us now.”
“Hello,” the lad muttered.
“And this is my mum, Auntie Lucy.”
“*Mrs. Lucy Wilson*,” she corrected.
“Mum, what’s for dinner?”
“Mashed peas and sausages.”
“I don’t eat mashed peas,” Jake replied, toeing off his trainers and wandering into the living room.
“Ugh, *Mum*, Jake doesn’t like peas,” her daughter gasped, eyes wide.
The lad sprawled across the sofa, dumping his backpack on the floor.
“That’s *my* room, actually,” Lucy said.
“Jake, come on, I’ll show you where we’ll stay,” called Emily.
“I like it here,” he grumbled, hauling himself up.
“Mum, figure out something else for Jake to eat.”
“I don’t know—there’s half a pack of sausages left,” Lucy shrugged.
“Fine, with mustard, ketchup, and bread,” he replied.
“Lovely,” Lucy said dryly, heading to the kitchen. “First it was stray kittens, now this. Feeding him, too.”
She scooped mashed peas onto her plate, added two fried sausages, nudged the salad closer, and dug in.
“Mum, why are you eating alone?” Emily marched in.
“Because I just got home from work and I’m starving,” Lucy said around a mouthful. “If you’re hungry, serve yourself or cook. And explain—why is Jake moving in?”
“‘Cause he’s my *husband*.”
Lucy nearly choked.
“Your what?”
“Exactly that. I’m an adult—I decide when I get married. I’m *nineteen*, by the way.”
“You didn’t even invite me to the wedding.”
“There wasn’t one. We just signed the papers. Now we’re living together,” Emily said, glaring at her chewing mother.
“Right. Congrats. Why no wedding?”
“If you’ve got money for one, hand it over—we’ll find a use for it.”
“Brilliant,” Lucy kept eating. “Why *here*?”
“His family’s in a tiny flat crammed with five people.”
“So renting never crossed your mind?”
“Why rent when I’ve got my own room?” Emily scoffed.
“Right.”
“Are you gonna feed us or what?”
“Em, pan’s on the stove, sausages in the skillet. Fridge has leftovers. Help yourselves.”
“Mum, you don’t *get it*—you’ve got a *SON-IN-LAW* now,” Emily stressed.
“And? Should I throw a street party in his honour? Em, I’m knackered. Sort yourselves out.”
“No wonder you’re still single!”
Emily stormed off, slamming the door. Lucy finished, washed up, wiped the table, and changed for the gym—her weekly escape.
By ten, she returned to a kitchen disaster. The mashed peas had dried into cracks, the sausage packet lay discarded, bread stiffened on the counter. The non-stick pan was scraped raw, dishes piled high, and a syrupy puddle glistened on the floor. The flat reeked of smoke.
“New low. Emily’s never pulled this before.”
She pushed open Emily’s door. The couple sipped wine, cigarettes in hand.
“Em, clean the kitchen. You’re replacing that pan tomorrow.”
“Why *us*? I’m a student—I’ve no money! Or is your precious pan worth more than us?”
“House rules: clean your mess, replace what you wreck. And yes, that pan *cost* me.”
“You just don’t want us here.”
“Nope,” Lucy said calmly.
“This is half *my* flat!”
“Nope. I bought it. You’re *registered* here. Fix your problems on your own dime.”
“I’ve followed *your* rules my *whole life*! Now I’m married—you don’t boss me around!” Emily shrieked. “You’ve had your turn—give us the flat!”
“You can have the pavement. But Jake’s not staying.”
“Ugh, *rot* here alone then! Jake, we’re *leaving*!”
Minutes later, her “son-in-law” barged in.
“Listen, *Mum*,” he slurred, swaying, “we’re staying. Be nice, and we’ll keep the noise down tonight.”
“I’m *not* your mum.”
“You’ll regret this!” He raised a fist.
Lucy seized his wrist, nails digging in.
“Ow! Let *go*!”
“Mum, *stop*!” Emily yanked at her.
Lucy shoved her aside, kneed Jake, then elbowed his throat.
“I’ll *sue* you!” he screeched.
“Hold on—I’ll call the police to *witness* it,” Lucy snapped.
They fled, leaving the two-bed flat behind.
“You’re *dead* to me!” Emily screamed. “No grandkids for *you*!”
“What a shame,” Lucy muttered, inspecting her chipped nails. “Peace at last.”
Three months later, a gaunt Emily approached her outside work.
“Mum… what’s for dinner?”
“Dunno. Fancy something?”
“Chicken and rice,” Emily swallowed. “And potato salad.”
“Alright. Let’s get chicken. *You* make the salad.”
Lucy asked no questions. Jake never resurfaced.
(Original by Evgeniya Potapova, adapted for English context.)
