Waiting for Peace, Finding Chaos
“Mum, I told you—just us, as a family!” Claire tightened her grip on the wooden spoon, turning from the stove to face her daughter. Her voice trembled, though she fought to keep it steady.
Olivia sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through her phone, dark hair tied in a messy bun. She barely looked up, irritation flickering across her face.
“Mum, don’t start,” she huffed. “It’s your fiftieth! A proper milestone! We can’t just have tea and call it a day. I’ve already invited everyone.”
“Who’s *everyone*?” Claire froze, the spoon wavering in her hand. “Liv, I said—you, James, the kids. Maybe Auntie Margaret. Who else?”
Olivia finally glanced up, rolling her eyes.
“Everyone. Auntie Margaret and Uncle David, their son and his wife, Nan, my girls from uni, neighbours—oh, and your old colleagues from the school. They practically invited themselves when they heard.”
Claire’s temples throbbed. She set the spoon down and wiped her hands on her apron.
“Are you serious? I’ve asked for *one* quiet day—just one! But you’ve planned a full-blown party?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Olivia stood, adjusting her jeans. “People *want* to celebrate you. You can’t just turn them away. Relax, I’ve got it all sorted. Just bake your cake, yeah? The one with the custard cream. I’ll handle the rest.”
Before Claire could argue, Olivia was already out the door, tossing over her shoulder, “And stop fussing. It’s *your* day!”
The door clicked shut. Alone, Claire stared at the bubbling pot of broth, the pile of unwashed dishes, and felt her chest tighten. Fifty years. She’d imagined a quiet evening—just her daughter, son-in-law, and the grandkids, wrapped in blankets, flipping through old photos. Instead, a crowd, noise, chaos. And, as always, all the work on her.
—
Claire loved her home. A modest two-bed flat in an old council block, it had been her refuge—where she’d raised Olivia, weathered the divorce, learned to stand on her own. The kitchen was her pride: lace curtains, a worn wooden table, her collection of porcelain teacups gathered over years. Every birthday, she’d bake her special cake—layers of sponge, vanilla custard, fresh berries. A little ritual. But this year, everything had unravelled.
Olivia announced the “big bash” two weeks ago. Claire had tried to protest, but her daughter wouldn’t budge. “Mum, you *deserve* this! Stop hiding away!” Reluctantly, Claire gave in. She never could argue with Olivia—a daughter who’d inherited her stubbornness but none of her patience. Now, the night before the party, she stood stirring batter for a crowd she’d never asked for.
By evening, the flat was a storage room. Olivia hauled in crates of drinks, bags of snacks, a monstrous bouquet that swallowed half the kitchen. Claire kneaded dough, trying not to think how any of it would fit.
“Mum! Where’d you put—?” Olivia barged in, flanked by her uni mates, Gemma and Sophie. “Ooh, smells amazing! Is that the cake?”
“Yes,” Claire muttered, not turning. “Don’t touch it—it’s not done.”
Gemma—red-lipped and grinning—dipped a finger into the custard. “Claire, can I try? I *love* your custard!”
“Best not,” Claire forced a smile.
“Oh, go on!” Gemma licked her finger. “God, *so* good! Liv, your mum’s a genius!”
Claire bit her tongue. Olivia, oblivious, chatted away as they dug into the bowl. When they left, Claire stared at the empty dish, eyes burning. She inhaled sharply and started again.
—
The morning was chaos. Claire was up at six, finishing the cake, chopping salads. By nine, the flat buzzed—Olivia darting about with garlands, James wrestling with a fold-out table in the lounge.
“Claire—where’s the tablecloth?” James called, rummaging through drawers.
“Bedroom cupboard,” Claire replied, slicing cucumbers. “Be careful—it’s Nan’s old one.”
A tear. Claire rushed in to find James holding the ruined linen.
“Sorry,” he winced. “Caught on a nail.”
Claire clenched her fists, nodded. “Use the other one.”
Back in the kitchen, she seethed. That wasn’t just a tablecloth—her mother had embroidered it. But she swallowed the hurt. No scenes today.
By noon, guests arrived. Auntie Margaret flounced in with a shop-bought cake (“*Professional icing, darling!*”), Nan demanded a cushioned stool, and Claire’s old colleagues—three loud women—dominated the room with stories she couldn’t follow. The kids tore through the flat, toppling anything in their path.
“Claire—where’s the kettle?” Auntie Margaret bellowed. “And the sausage rolls?”
“In the oven. Kettle’s there.”
“Oh, is *this* your cake?” Margaret jabbed at Claire’s berry-topped masterpiece. “Lovely, but ours is *fancier*.”
Claire gritted her teeth, smiled.
Soon, the kitchen was a thoroughfare. Guests grabbed plates, demanded cutlery, asked for seconds. Claire darted between stove and table while Olivia basked in praise for the “fantastic party” (“*Mum should relax!*”).
—
By three, the flat roared—music, laughter, shrieking kids. Claire scrubbed dishes to free space for more. Her cake sat untouched—everyone preferred the shop one.
“Claire—get in here!” Olivia pulled her toward the lounge. “They’re doing toasts!”
“In a minute.”
“Leave the dishes! It’s *your* day!”
Claire acquiesced. Glasses lifted—”To the birthday girl!”—but she felt like a spectator. This wasn’t her day—it was Olivia’s, the guests’, the noise’s.
Back in the kitchen, her cake was gone. Then she saw it—five-year-old Archie smearing custard on the table, little Ella pelting berries at the others.
“Archie! *Ella!*” Claire snapped.
The room hushed. The cake was wrecked—crushed layers, smeared cream, berries strewn. Guests chuckled (“*Kids, eh?*”); Olivia shrugged.
“Mum, don’t shout. It’s just a cake. We’ll get another.”
“*Just a cake?* I stayed up all night making this! For *you*! And no one even *tried* it!”
Silence. Olivia stepped forward.
“Mum, sorry. I’ll clean up—you go rest.”
“*Rest?* I’ve been on my feet since dawn! Cooking, cleaning, fetching—like a maid! This is *my* birthday, Olivia! Mine! But everyone does as they please, and no one asks what *I* want!”
She turned on the crowd.
“Leave. All of you. Party’s over.”
“Claire—” Uncle David started.
“*Out.* If you want a party, host one. My home isn’t a pub.”
Grumbling, guests trickled out. Olivia, flushed, stammered apologies, but Claire shook her head.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
—
When the door shut, Claire collapsed onto the sofa. Silence at last—just the ticking clock. The kitchen was a wreck: dirty plates, custard smears, her mother’s vase in shards. But she didn’t feel angry. Just relieved.
She made tea, pulled out an old photo album—Olivia as a toddler, her wedding, the grandkids’ first steps. She smiled. She loved her family—but today she’d learned: love didn’t mean losing herself.
Olivia called that evening.
“Mum… I’m sorry. I just wanted you happy.”
“I know,” Claire said. “But next time, *ask* what I want. Deal?”
“Deal.” A pause. “Can I come tomorrow? Help clean up?”
“Come,” Claire smiled. “But no more cakes.”
She hung up, surveying the mess. Tomorrow, she’d start again—but on her terms.
