**Three Women, One Kitchen, and Not a Drop of Peace**
Monday was mine, Tuesday for Mum, Wednesday for Margaret, Thursday back to me—that’s how I drew up the rota, neat lines on squared paper. Weekends? We’d see.
“Perfect,” Mum—Sarah—nodded, hiding a smug smile. “Order at last.”
“Hmph. Until the first pot of stew boils over,” muttered Margaret, my mother-in-law. “You two are only good on paper.”
I ignored her. Six months under one roof with two mothers wasn’t living—it was a soap opera without a pause button.
It started after Sophie was born. Sarah had come to “help for a few weeks.” Margaret had never left—she’d lived with us since the wedding. “And where else would I go?” was her favourite line.
The flat was a three-bed, but it felt like a dollhouse. No room to breathe, let alone for three women playing house.
“Who put the empty pickle jar back in the fridge?” Margaret shrieked at 10 a.m.
“Me!” Sarah called from the balcony. “There’s brine left—perfect for soup!”
“How very thrifty,” Margaret sneered. “But I make soup on Wednesdays. Today’s Tuesday. My day!”
“I was trying to help,” Mum huffed.
“I didn’t ask!”
“But I did,” I said, setting Sophie in her playpen. “Stick to the rota. Or we’ll repeat last week: three stews in one day and no one washing up.”
“We ate it, didn’t we?” Margaret shot back. “And I spent half an hour scrubbing the hob. My blood pressure, you know!”
My husband, James, either went for a run or put on headphones during these battles. “Important calls,” he’d say, but I knew—he was hiding. Picking sides? Impossible. Easier to duck out.
“Talk to him,” Sarah whispered once he’d fled. “He should tell his mother to back off. Sophie’s my grandchild too.”
“You interfere just as much,” I murmured.
“Well, someone has to! Who takes Sophie out? Who bought her new boots? Who did the midnight laundry?”
“Mum, enough. This isn’t a competition.”
But it was. All three of us—me, Mum, Margaret—fighting for the title of “woman of the house.” And James? James was just trying not to drown.
Then came the Battle of the Kitchen.
“Wednesday is my day!” Margaret roared. “Whose pot is this?”
“I was with the baby—I can’t memorise your stupid rota!” Sarah snapped.
“Who invited you into our home?”
“Your home? I paid for this kitchen while you were off gallivanting in Brighton!”
“Oh, is that your answer to everything? ‘I paid, I did’? Next you’ll claim you birthed Sophie too!”
I stormed in just as the stew—the “off-schedule” one—boiled over onto the hob.
“Enough!” I yelled. “Both of you—out! Tomorrow’s soup will be made of patience!”
Silence.
“I’m not a pawn between you. I’m a person. A woman with sore breasts, no sleep, and zero desire to cook! Are we clear?”
I locked myself in the bathroom. The quiet was a relief. And then it hit me: neither of them was the villain. They just didn’t know how to let go.
The next day, I announced laundry day. If socks went missing and towels tangled, we’d sort it like adults.
“Good idea,” Sarah said. “I’ve lost three nighties.”
“And my sheets!” Margaret added.
We strung a clothesline in the kitchen—pegs colour-coded. I mopped while Sophie napped. The two of them sat on stools, staring at the hanging nappies, exhausted.
“Why am I even here?” Sarah said suddenly. “You’re grown. Why do I meddle?”
“So you’re not alone,” Margaret said quietly. “Retirement feels like waiting to die. With them… we matter.”
Sarah nodded. Silence.
“I raised three kids alone. No help. Now it’s like… a second chance to get it right.”
“My way is right too,” Margaret smirked. “Schedules. Control. Or chaos reigns.”
“Maybe… she doesn’t need us?” Sarah ventured. “Is this a contest?”
I walked in to find them side by side. No bickering. No stew.
I kissed Sophie’s head. “We’re moving. A two-bed. Just us.”
“What—alone?” Sarah panicked.
“We’ll stay local. But… it’s time.”
“And Sophie?”
“You’ll visit. On rota. No cooking.”
A month later, I woke in silence. No arguing, no lingering smell of stew.
James buttered toast in the kitchen. “How’s the quiet?”
“Strange. But good. Feels like I’m finally in charge.”
He grinned. “Can I cook tonight?”
“Sure. But you’re on Thursdays now.”
We laughed.
A year on, I sipped coffee by the window. Sophie stacked blocks at my feet; James read aloud to himself more than to her. Sunday—the slow day. Peace like music.
Then the doorbell.
I knew who it was. Right on schedule.
“Hi, Mum.” I smiled at Sarah, neat in her coat, clutching a tote. “No food, remember?”
“Just snacks! Nuts, seeds, cough syrup—just in case—”
“There’s a chemist downstairs.”
“Since when are nuts ‘food’?” She winked. “And no stew. Promise!”
I rolled my eyes but let it slide. The calm had shifted, but this was my space now.
Margaret arrived the next week with a wheeled suitcase.
“My knee’s playing up,” she sighed. “Staying three days.”
“Two,” I said automatically.
“Make it three. I brought meals—fish, broth, cutlets. Knew you’d be on some fad diet.”
James peeked out, smirked, and vanished. I sighed and rearranged the fridge: Granny’s stash (top shelf), ours (middle), Sophie’s (labelled containers).
On day three, Margaret opened the freezer. “You’ve got chicken in here.”
“For tomorrow. James’s recipe.”
“I could fry it now. My sauce—”
“I can say no now,” I smiled.
“Steel nerves, like my mother-in-law. But she had no humour.”
“I do. Fancy tea?”
“Not that herbal nonsense.”
Then came the Double Granny Surprise. Both turned up unannounced.
“Saturday’s mine!” Sarah said. “I baked carrot cake!”
“I booked this weekend!” Margaret retorted. “My back’s out—weekdays are impossible!”
“Competing over ailments now?”
“The sufferer gets priority.”
“Fine,” I cut in. “If you can’t share, you both leave.”
“What?”
“Home. Or Zoom calls with Sophie.”
“Zoom’s not proper!” Sarah gasped.
“Then act like adults.”
Silence. The Zoom threat worked.
“We’ll both stay,” Margaret said. “Sleep on the kitchen floor.”
“Taking turns!” Sarah added.
“No—I won’t listen to you snore!”
“Or you sleep-talking!”
“Living room. Mattresses. Like Girl Guides camp.”
I tossed them one duvet. “Learn to share.”
By morning, they were rumpled but reconciled.
“Turns out, stew isn’t mandatory,” Margaret mused. “Your lentil soup’s not bad.”
“And you fold clothes neatly,” Sarah admitted.
“We’ve been thinking…” Margaret began. “What if we flat-share?”
“Together?” I blinked.
“Why not? Visit Sophie once a week, then tea, telly, and bingo. Our own kitchen—with a rota!”
They laughed.
A week later, I visited their new one-bed. Cosy, with two armchairs, a fern, and a chalkboard: “Fish Friday.”
“We figured it out,” Sarah said. “Being a grandma isn’t about living in your house. It’s about being there when you’re needed.”
“And not cooking uninvited!” Margaret added.
Outside, I texted James:
*Our kitchen’s rota-free. Just us, Sophie, and your famous pancakes. Ready?*
The reply came fast:
*Always. Pan’s hot, butter’s sizzling.*
