Waiting for Peace, Getting Pandemonium
“Grace, I asked for a quiet family gathering!” Emily turned from the stove, gripping a wooden spoon, her voice trembling with irritation but straining to stay calm.
Grace, slumped at the kitchen table, scrolled through her phone without looking up. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun, and her face plainly read *mild exasperation*.
“Mum, don’t start,” she huffed, eyes glued to the screen. “It’s your fiftieth! You can’t just sip tea and call it a day. I’ve already invited everyone.”
“Everyone *who*?” Emily froze, the spoon wobbling in her hand. “Grace, I said just you, James, and the kids. Maybe Aunt Margaret. Who else?”
Grace finally glanced up, rolling her eyes. “*Everyone*, Mum! Aunt Margaret and Uncle Nigel, their son and his wife, Gran Rose, my mates and their husbands, a couple of neighbours. Oh, and your old colleagues from the school—they practically invited themselves when they heard!”
Emily’s temples pulsed. She set the spoon down slowly, wiped her hands on her apron, and inhaled.
“Grace. *Seriously?* I’ve begged for six months to have *one* peaceful day. And now you’ve thrown me a *circus*?”
“Mum, don’t be dramatic,” Grace stood, adjusting her jeans. “People just want to celebrate you. Are you really going to turn them away? Relax, I’ll handle everything. Just bake your famous Victoria sponge, yeah? I’ll sort the rest.”
Emily opened her mouth to protest, but Grace was already halfway out, tossing over her shoulder:
“And stop grumbling. It’s *your* party!”
The door slammed. Alone, Emily stared at the boiling stockpot, the mountain of dishes in the sink, and felt everything inside her tighten. Fifty years. She’d dreamed of a quiet evening: cosy supper with Grace and the grandkids, a warm blanket, old photo albums. Instead? A stampede, noise, and — as always — *her* cleaning up.
—
Emily loved her home. Her little two-bed flat in an aging brick block was her fortress. She’d raised Grace here, weathered the divorce here, learned to stand tall here. The kitchen was her pride: gingham curtains, a scrubbed-pine table, a shelf of vintage teacups collected over years. Every birthday, she baked *the* cake—Victoria sponge with fresh cream and berries. Her ritual. But this year? Derailed.
Grace had announced the “epic jubilee bash” two weeks prior. Emily had tried to veto it, but Grace, inheriting her stubbornness but none of her patience, bulldozed ahead. “Mum, you *deserve* a party! Stop hiding!” So Emily, as ever, relented. Now, the eve of the “big day,” she stood at the stove cooking for a crowd she’d never wanted.
By evening, the flat resembled a warehouse. Grace hauled in crates of Prosecco, bags of crisps, and a bouquet so massive it commandeered half the kitchen. Kneading cake batter, Emily tried not to dwell on how 30 people would fit in her shoebox home.
“Mum? Where are— Oh, smells amazing!” Grace barged in with her two mates, Sophie and Gemma, who promptly plonked themselves at the table. “Is that the cake?”
“Yes,” Emily muttered, back turned. “Don’t touch it. It’s not ready.”
Sophie, lipstick alarmingly red, reached for the cream bowl. “Em, can I try a lick? Your custard’s *legend*.”
“Better not,” Emily forced a smile. “It’s not finished.”
“Oh, go on!” Sophie scooped a fingerful anyway. “*God*, this is heaven! Grace, your mum’s a wizard!”
Emily clenched her jaw and said nothing. Grace, oblivious, chattered while her friends pillaged the cream. When they left, Emily eyed the empty bowl, tears pricking. She took a breath and started again.
—
The “big day” started at dawn. Emily was up at six, icing the cake and chopping veg. By nine, chaos reigned: Grace raced about hanging bunting, while James wrestled a foldable table into the lounge.
“Em, where’s the good tablecloth?” James called, rummaging through cupboards.
“Bedroom dresser,” Emily answered, dicing cucumbers. “Be *careful*—it was Gran’s.”
“Right, got i—” *Rip.*
Emily sprinted in. James held the heirloom linen, now in two pieces.
“Er… sorry?” He offered a sheepish grin. “Caught on a nail.”
Emily balled her fists but just nodded. “No matter. Grab the spare.”
Back in the kitchen, she seethed. That wasn’t *just* a tablecloth—Gran had hand-embroidered it. But she swallowed it. Today was supposed to be happy.
By noon, the guests descended. Aunt Margaret brought a garish shop-bought cake that upstaged Emily’s. Gran Rose demanded a cushion throne. Ex-colleagues—three shrieking women—monopolised the conversation. And the kids? Tiny tornados upending everything.
“Em, where’s the teapot?” Aunt Margaret bellowed. “And where are your famous scones?”
“Scones are warming. Teapot’s *right there*.”
“Oh, is *this* your cake?” Margaret jabbed at Emily’s berry-topped masterpiece. “Lovely, but ours is *professional*. Fondant!”
Emily gritted her teeth. “Yours is… *very* glossy.”
The kitchen became Grand Central. Guests swarmed, grabbing plates, demanding forks, asking for seconds while Grace held court in the lounge, basking in praise for the “*brilliant* party.” Emily overheard: “*I* organised it all—Mum *needs* to relax!” and felt something inside her snap.
—
By 3 PM, the flat buzzed like a pub at closing. Kids shrieked, adults guffawed, and Ed Sheeran *blared* from speakers. At the sink, Emily scrubbed plates to make room for more. Her cake sat untouched—everyone was too busy with Margaret’s fondant monstrosity.
“Em, why’re you hiding?” Grace appeared, tugging her arm. “Come on, they’re doing toasts!”
“In a minute,” Emily muttered. “Just these plates—”
“Oh, leave them!” Grace dragged her out. “It’s *your* day!”
In the lounge, guests raised glasses. “To the birthday girl!” Emily smiled, nodded, but felt like an imposter. This wasn’t her day—it was Grace’s, the guests’, the *chaos’s*. She just wanted silence.
Back in the kitchen, she froze. Her cake was *gone*. Heart pounding, she dashed to the lounge—and there it was: five-year-old Oliver smearing cream on the table while his sister Jess pelted berries at the other kids.
“Oliver! Jessica! *What are you doing?!*”
The room hushed. Too late. The cake was wrecked: sponge crumbled, cream smeared, berries carpeting the floor. Guests tittered. “*Kids, eh?*” Grace, from the corner, shrugged.
“Mum, don’t shout. It’s just a cake. We’ll buy another.”
“*Just a cake?*” Emily’s voice cracked. “I stayed up *all night* baking this! For *you*! And you didn’t even *try* it!”
Silence. Guests exchanged glances. Grace stepped forward.
“Mum, sorry. We didn’t mean— I’ll clean up. You rest.”
“*Rest?*” Emily exploded. “I’ve been on my feet since dawn! Cooking, cleaning, *serving*! This was supposed to be *my* birthday, Grace! *Mine!* But none of you even *asked* what *I* wanted!”
She turned to the crowd, shaking but firm.
“Leave. All of you. Party’s over.”
“Em, don’t be—” Uncle Nigel started.
“*Stop.*” Her voice was steel. “Go. Celebrate at *your* homes. Mine isn’t a *train station*.”
Grumbling, guests gathered coats. Grace, scarlet, stammered—but Emily just shook her head.
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
—
When the door finally shut, Emily collapsed onto the sofa. Silence. Just the clock ticking. The kitchen was a warzone: dirty plates, cream splotches, shards of her mother’s vase (casualty of the tiny barbarians). But — oddly — she wasn’t angry. Just *relieved*.
She brewed Earl Grey, fetched an old photo album, and smiled. Grace’s first steps. Her wedding. The grandkids. She loved her family — but today, she’d learned: love shouldn’t mean erasing yourself.
Grace rang that evening.
“Mum… I’m sorry. I just wanted you to have fun.”
“I know,” Emily*”Next year, remind me to book a spa day—alone,”* Emily said, laughing softly as she turned the page of the album.
