**Three Women, One Kitchen, and Not a Drop of Peace**
Monday was mine. Tuesday, Mum’s. Wednesday, Margaret’s. Thursday, mine again. Weekends—well, we’d see.
“Brilliant,” Mum nodded, hiding a smug smile. “Now we’ll have order.”
“Hmm, until the first pot of stew boils over,” muttered Margaret, my mother-in-law. “You lot are only good on paper.”
I ignored her. Six months under one roof with two mothers—this wasn’t life, it was a soap opera. And there was no pause button.
It started after Sophie was born. Mum came “just for a few weeks to help.” Margaret had lived with us since we married—”Where else would I go?” was her refrain.
Our 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 AM.
“Me!” Mum called from the balcony. “There’s brine left—perfect for soup!”
“How very domestic,” Margaret sneered. “But soup’s my day. Today’s Tuesday. My day!”
“I was trying to help,” Mum huffed.
“I didn’t ask!”
“But I did.” I plopped Sophie into her playpen. “Mum, stick to the schedule. Last time, we had three stews in one day and no one washed up.”
“We ate them, didn’t we?” Margaret shot back. “And I scrubbed the stove for half an hour after. I’ve got blood pressure, you know!”
My husband, James, either went for a run or slipped on headphones during these rows. “Work calls,” he’d say, but I knew—he was hiding. Choosing sides meant losing either way.
“Talk to James,” Mum whispered once he’d fled. “He should tell his mother to back off. Sophie’s my granddaughter too.”
“Mum, you’re just as bad.”
“Well, someone has to step in. Who takes Sophie out? Who bought her new wellies? Who did the midnight laundry?”
“Enough. This isn’t a competition.”
But it was. All three of us—me, Mum, Margaret—battling for the title of “woman of the house.” And James? James was just trying not to drown.
Then came the night the kitchen erupted.
“I said Wednesday’s my day!” Margaret yelled. “Why’s your pot on my stove?”
“Because I’m busy with Sophie and don’t have time for your ridiculous schedule!” Mum snapped.
“Who asked you to invade our home?”
“Your home? I paid for this kitchen while you were off on your spa weekends!”
“Ah, there it is—‘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! Both of you—pots off. Tomorrow, we’re having patience purée!”
Silence.
“I’m not some soldier caught between two armies. I’m a person. A woman with hormones, a sore back, a baby who won’t sleep, and zero desire to cook! Understand?”
I slammed the bathroom door. Alone, it hit me: neither was to blame. They just didn’t know how to let go.
Next day, I declared laundry day. Shared. Since socks vanished and towels tangled, we’d sort it like adults.
“Good!” Mum approved. “I’ve lost three dressing gowns.”
“And my sheets!” Margaret added.
We strung a line in the kitchen, pegs colour-coded. I mopped; Sophie napped. The two of them sat on stools, staring at drying nappies, silent.
“I’ve been thinking,” Mum finally said. “Why am I even here? You’re grown. Why do I meddle?”
“So you’re not alone,” Margaret murmured. “Retirement’s just… waiting. But with kids, you feel alive. Needed.”
Mum nodded. “I raised three alone. No help. Now it’s like… a second chance to get it right.”
“My way’s right too,” Margaret smirked. “Schedules, rules. Or chaos wins.”
“Maybe… Sophie doesn’t need fixing?” Mum ventured. “We’re not competing?”
I walked past them—side by side, no stew, no barbs—and kissed Sophie’s head.
“James and I are moving. A little two-bed. Quiet. Just us.”
“Completely alone?” Mum panicked.
“We’ll still be in town. But it’s time.”
“What about Sophie?”
“You’ll visit. On rotation,” I smiled. “No cooking.”
A month later, I woke in silence. No voices, no stew scent.
James nibbled toast in the kitchen. “How’s the quiet?”
“Strange. Nice. Feels like I’m finally in charge.”
He grinned. “Can I cook tonight?”
“Only if it’s your day.”
We laughed.
A year on, I sipped coffee by the window. Sophie played with blocks; James read aloud—more to himself than her. Sunday, slow and sweet.
Then the doorbell.
I knew who it was. Right on schedule.
“Hi, Mum.” I opened the door to her neat coat and tote bag.
“Oh, my darling!” She swept Sophie up. “Look how big you’ve got!”
“No food, remember?” I eyed the bag.
“Just essentials. Nuts, cough syrup—in case—”
“We’ve a chemist downstairs.”
“Since when are nuts food?” She winked. “And no stew. Promise!”
I rolled my eyes but let it slide. My house, my rules.
Next week, Margaret arrived—with a wheeled suitcase.
“My knee’s acting up,” she sighed. “Thought I’d stay longer. Four days?”
“Two.”
“Three?”
“Fine. But no fridge inspections.”
“Why would I? Brought my own meals.” She patted the suitcase. “Cutlets, steamed fish, broth in a flask. I know you’re on that fad diet…”
James peeked out, smirked, and vanished. I sighed, then rearranged the fridge: Gran’s stash (top shelf), ours (middle), Sophie’s (labelled containers).
Day three, Margaret eyed the freezer. “You’ve chicken in here.”
“Yes. James is cooking it tomorrow.”
“I could do it now, with my sauce…”
“I could say no.”
“You’re as stubborn as my mother-in-law. But she lacked humour.”
“I’ve got some. Fancy tea?”
“Not that fancy leaf rubbish.”
Then came the surprise: both grannies, same day.
“Saturday’s mine!” Mum declared, unzipping her puffer. “I baked a carrot cake. Healthy!”
“I booked weekends last week!” Margaret countered. “My hernia acts up weekdays!”
“Since when is this about ailments?”
“The sufferer decides.”
“My heart’s racing! I baked all night!”
“Stop.” I stepped in, Sophie on my hip. “If you can’t share, you both leave.”
“Where to?” they gasped.
“Home. You’re adults. Can’t split time? Zoom calls only.”
“Zoom’s not proper!” Mum protested.
“Then act like people and compromise.”
Silence. Zoom had scared them straight.
“Fine,” Margaret conceded. “We’ll both stay. But we sleep on the kitchen floor.”
“Take turns?” Mum asked.
“No, I won’t listen to you snore!”
“You talk in your sleep!”
“Living room. Mattresses. Like camp. Deal?”
“Only if Lena lends blankets.”
“One to share,” I said. “Learn.”
Next morning, they looked rumpled but softer.
“Turns out, stew’s optional,” Margaret mused. “Your lentil soup’s not bad.”
“And your ironing’s tidy,” Mum admitted.
“We’ve been thinking,” Margaret began. “Maybe we’ll flat-share?”
“Together?” I blinked.
“Why not? Visit you weekly, then tea, telly, and chess. Or bingo.”
“Our own kitchen!” Mum beamed. “With a rota.”
They laughed.
A week later, I visited their new flat—a cosy one-bed with a little table, two armchairs, a fern, and a sign: “Today: Fish Fridays.”
“Lena,” Mum said. “We get it now. Being a granny isn’t living in your pocket. It’s being there when you’re needed.”
“And not cooking unasked!” Margaret added.
Outside, I texted James: *Our kitchen’s ours again. No rota. No guests. Just us, Sophie, and your famous pancakes. Waiting?*
The reply came fast: *Always. Pan’s hot, butter’s sizzling.*
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes, love means stepping back so the ones you love can breathe—and letting them set the table theirAnd as I closed the door behind me, the silence finally felt like home, not loneliness—just ours.
