Three Women, One Kitchen, and Not a Drop of Peace
“Right. Monday’s mine. Tuesday—Mum. Wednesday—Margaret. Thursday—me again.” Emma neatly divided the notebook page into squares. “Weekends—we’ll see.”
“Lovely,” nodded her mother, Caroline, hiding a satisfied smile. “That’s order for you.”
“Sure, until the first pot of stew,” muttered her mother-in-law, Margaret. “You girls are only good on paper.”
Emma ignored her. She was exhausted. Six months under one roof with two mothers—this wasn’t life, it was a soap opera. Without a pause button.
It all started after Lily was born. Caroline had come “for a couple of months to help.” Margaret had never left: she’d lived with them since the wedding. “Where else would I go? My son married you,” was her refrain.
The flat was a three-bed, but it felt like a dollhouse. No room to breathe, and now three women elbowing for control.
“Who put the empty pickle jar back in the fridge?” Margaret shrieked at 10 a.m.
“Me!” Caroline called from the balcony. “There’s brine left! For soup!”
“Oh, aren’t we the domestic goddess,” Margaret sneered. “But soup’s my day. Wednesday. Today’s Tuesday. Mine!”
“I was just trying to help,” Caroline huffed.
“I didn’t ask!”
“But I did,” Emma plopped Lily into her playpen. “Mum, stick to the schedule. Or we’ll have three stews in one day again, and no one washing up.”
“At least we ate it!” Margaret shot back. “And I scrubbed the hob for half an hour after. I’ve got blood pressure, you know!”
Emma’s husband, James, would either go for a run or slip on headphones during these fights. “Important calls,” he’d say, but Emma knew—he just didn’t know whose side to take. Choosing was impossible. Easier to hide.
“Emma, talk to James,” Caroline whispered once he’d left. “He should tell his mother to back off. It’s his child too.”
“Mum, you’re not exactly hands-off,” Emma sighed.
“Well, what else can I do when everything’s falling apart? Who takes Lily out? Who bought her new boots? Who did the washing last night?”
“Mum, stop. This isn’t a competition.”
But it was. All three—Emma, her mum, her mother-in-law—battled daily for the title of “woman of the house.” And James… James was just trying not to drown.
One evening, the kitchen became a warzone.
“I said Wednesday’s my day!” Margaret yelled. “Why’s your pot on my hob?”
“Because I’m busy with the baby and couldn’t care less about your stupid schedule!” Caroline snapped.
“Who asked you to meddle in our home?”
“Your home? I paid for this kitchen’s renovation while you were off gallivanting in Bath!”
“Oh, that’s your answer for everything, Caroline—‘I did it all.’ Next you’ll say you birthed the baby too!”
Emma stormed in just as the stew—the “off-schedule” one—boiled over onto the hob.
“Enough!” she shouted. “Both of you—pots off! Tomorrow’s soup is patience puréed!”
Both women fell silent.
“I’m not some pawn between you two, understand? I’m a person! A woman with hormones, a sore back, a baby who won’t sleep, and zero desire to cook anything!” Her voice cracked. “Stop.”
She slammed the bathroom door behind her. It was quiet. And in that quiet, it hit her: neither her mum nor Margaret were villains. They just didn’t know how to let go.
The next day, she declared laundry day. Shared. If socks vanished and towels tangled, they’d sort it like adults.
“Good!” Caroline approved. “I’ve lost three dressing gowns.”
“And my sheets!” Margaret added.
They strung a line across the kitchen, each with her own pegs. Emma mopped, Lily napped, and the two grandmothers sat on stools, staring tiredly at the hanging baby grows.
“I’ve been thinking,” Caroline finally said. “Why am I even here? Emma’s grown. Why do I intrude?”
“So we’re not alone,” Margaret murmured. “Retirement’s just… waiting. But with the baby, it feels like living. Like we matter.”
Caroline nodded. Silence.
“I raised three alone. No help. Now it’s like… a second chance. To do it right.”
“My way’s right too,” Margaret smirked. “Schedules. Control. Or it’s chaos.”
“Maybe Emma doesn’t need fixing?” Caroline ventured. “Are we competing?”
Emma stepped out to find them side by side. No bickering. No stew.
She kissed Lily’s head and announced, “James and I are moving. A little two-bed. Quiet. Just us.”
“Completely?” Caroline panicked.
“We’re not leaving town. But… it’s time.”
“What about… Lily?”
“You’ll visit. On rotation.” Emma smiled. “No cooking.”
—
A month later, Emma woke in her new bedroom. Silence. No arguing, no smell of stew.
James buttered toast in the kitchen.
“How’s the quiet?” he asked.
“Strange. Nice. I think… I’m finally the woman of the house.”
He grinned. “Can I cook tonight?”
“Sure. But you’re Thursdays now.”
They laughed.
—
A year on, Emma sipped coffee by the window. Lily stacked blocks on the floor while James read aloud—more to himself than to her. Sunday, the slow day. The silence hummed like music.
Then the doorbell.
Emma didn’t flinch. She knew.
“Hi, Mum,” she smiled, opening the door to Caroline, neat in her coat, tote bag in hand.
“Darling! Oh, my angel!” Caroline scooped up Lily. “Look how you’ve grown!”
“Mum, no food. Remember?” Emma nodded at the bag.
“Just essentials. Nuts, seeds, cough syrup—just in case—”
“We’ve a chemist downstairs.”
“Are nuts food?” Caroline winked. “And I didn’t make stew. Promise!”
Emma rolled her eyes but let it slide. The peace tilted, but this was her space now. She was in charge.
Next week, Margaret arrived with a wheeled suitcase.
“My knee’s acting up,” she sighed, toeing off her shoes. “I’ll stay a few days. Four, at least.”
“Two,” Emma said automatically.
“Three?”
“Fine. But no fridge inspections.”
“Why would I? I brought my own.” Margaret gestured to the suitcase. “Meatballs, steamed fish, broth in a flask. I know you’re on that ‘fad diet’…”
James peeked out, winked, and vanished. Emma sighed, then organized “edible borders”: Margaret’s food—top shelf. Theirs—middle. Lily’s—labelled containers.
On day three, Margaret opened the freezer.
“You’ve chicken in here.”
“Yes. We’re cooking it tomorrow. James’s recipe.”
“Hmm. I’d do it now, with gravy. You know how I make it.”
“And I know how to say no,” Emma smiled.
“You’re as stubborn as my mother-in-law. But she had no humour.”
“I do. So—tea?”
“Fine. But none of those fancy root-infused things.”
—
A month later, both grandmothers showed up unannounced.
“Saturday’s mine!” Caroline declared, unzipping her coat. “I baked a carrot cake. Healthy.”
“I called last week—I booked this weekend!” Margaret countered. “My hernia acts up weekdays!”
“So now we queue by ailments?”
“No sarcasm. The sufferer’s always right.”
“My heart’s racing! I baked all night!”
“Stop,” Emma cut in, Lily on her hip. “If you can’t share, you both leave.”
“Where?” they gasped in unison.
“Home. You’re adults. If you can’t share Lily, you’ll Zoom her.”
“Zoom’s not human!” Caroline cried.
“Then act like humans and compromise.”
Silence. Zoom, apparently, was terrifying.
“Fine,” Margaret said. “We’ll both stay. But we sleep on the kitchen floor.”
“Turns?” Caroline asked.
“No chance. I won’t listen to you snore.”
“And I won’t endure your sleep-talking!”
“Living room. Mattresses. Like camp. Agreed?”
“Only if Emma gives us blankets.”
“One. To share,” Emma said. “Learn.”
By morning, they looked… rumpled, but calm.
“Turns out, stew’s optional,” Margaret mused. “I had your lentil soup. Not bad.”
“AndAnd as the sun set, Emma realized that peace wasn’t the absence of noise but the presence of love—even when it came with an extra helping of chaos.
