**Waiting for Peace, Getting Chaos**
“Mum, I told you—just us, as a family!” Claire turned from the stove, gripping a wooden spoon. Her voice trembled with irritation, but she kept it steady.
Emily sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through her phone. Her blonde hair was piled into a messy bun, her face twitching with mild annoyance. “Mum, are you starting already?” She snorted without looking up. “It’s your birthday! Fifty years—a proper milestone! We can’t just have tea and call it a day. I’ve already invited everyone.”
Claire froze. The spoon wobbled in her hand. “Who, exactly, is *everyone*? I asked for you, James, the kids. Maybe Auntie Linda. Who else?”
Emily finally glanced up, rolling her eyes. “Oh, you know—Auntie Linda and Uncle Nigel, their son and his wife, Gran Margaret, my mates with their husbands, a couple of neighbours. Oh, and your old coworkers from the school. They invited themselves when they heard.”
Claire felt her temples throb. She set the spoon down slowly and wiped her hands on her apron. “Emily, are you serious? I’ve asked for *one* quiet day. Just one! And now you’re throwing me a wedding?”
“Mum, don’t be dramatic,” Emily said, standing and adjusting her jeans. “People want to celebrate you. You’re not seriously going to turn them away? Relax, I’ll handle everything. You just bake the cake, yeah? Your famous one, with the custard. I’ll sort the rest.”
Claire opened her mouth to argue, but Emily was already halfway out the door, tossing over her shoulder, “And stop grumbling. It’s *your* party!”
The door slammed, and Claire was alone. She stared at the boiling pot of stock, the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink, and felt everything inside her tighten. Fifty years. She’d dreamed of a quiet evening: a cosy dinner with Emily, James, and the grandkids, a warm blanket, old photo albums. Instead—chaos, noise, and, as usual, all the work falling on her.
—
Claire loved her home. Her small two-bed flat in an old brick building was her fortress. She’d raised Emily here, weathered her divorce here, learned to stand on her own two feet here. The kitchen was her pride—lace curtains, a sturdy oak table, a shelf of porcelain teacups she’d collected for years. Every birthday, she baked her signature cake: layers of sponge, thick custard, fresh berries. It was her little tradition. But this year, everything had gone sideways.
Two weeks ago, Emily announced a “proper do” for the “big five-oh.” Claire had tried to talk her out of it, but Emily, stubborn as ever, wouldn’t budge. “Mum, you *deserve* a celebration! Stop hiding away!” So, as usual, Claire caved. She never could argue with Emily—her daughter had inherited her stubbornness but none of her patience. Now, the day before the party, she stood at the stove, cooking for a crowd she hadn’t even invited.
By evening, the flat looked like a warehouse. Emily hauled in crates of drinks, bags of snacks, and a giant bouquet that took up half the kitchen. Kneading dough for the cake, Claire tried not to think about how they’d fit everyone into her tiny space.
“Mum, where are—oh, smells amazing!” Emily burst in with her two mates, Sophie and Jess, giggling. Jess, lipstick too bright, reached for the bowl of custard.
“Claire, can I try? I *love* your custard!”
“Better not,” Claire said, forcing a smile. “It’s not finished.”
“Oh, go on,” Jess scooped a spoonful anyway. “Bloody hell, this is *divine*! Em, your mum’s a genius!”
Claire pressed her lips together. Emily, oblivious, chattered away as her friends ate straight from the bowl. When they left, Claire stared at the empty dish, eyes burning. She took a deep breath and started another batch.
—
The morning of the party was pandemonium. Claire woke at six to finish the cake and prep salads. By nine, the flat was buzzing—Emily darted around hanging balloons, while James wrestled with a wobbly folding table.
“Claire, where’s the tablecloth?” James called, rummaging through the cupboard.
“Bedroom, in the dresser. And be careful—it’s Gran’s, an heirloom.”
“Right, got it,” he muttered. A second later—*rip*. Claire rushed out to find James holding the tablecloth, torn clean in two.
“Sorry, Claire,” he winced. “Caught it on a nail.”
She clenched her fists but nodded. “It’s fine. Grab the other one.”
Back in the kitchen, she seethed. That wasn’t just a tablecloth—her mother had stitched it. But today wasn’t the day for a row.
By noon, guests arrived in droves. Auntie Linda and Uncle Nigel brought a towering cake that overshadowed Claire’s. Gran Margaret demanded a cushion for her chair. Claire’s old school colleagues—three loud, nostalgic women—monopolised the conversation. And the kids—grandchildren and nieces—raced through the flat like tiny tornadoes.
“Claire, where’s the kettle?” Auntie Linda barked. “And the sandwiches? I’m starving!”
“In the oven,” Claire said, wiping her forehead. “Kettle’s on the hob.”
“Oh, is *this* your cake?” Linda jabbed a finger at Claire’s berry-topped masterpiece. “Lovely, but ours is *fancier*—ordered from that posh bakery, with fondant!”
Claire gritted her teeth but smiled. “Yours is lovely too. I’ll bring everything out.”
The kitchen became a thoroughfare. Guests piled in, grabbing plates, demanding forks, asking for seconds. Claire darted between stove and table while Emily held court in the living room, basking in praise for “throwing such a *brilliant* party.” Claire heard her say, “Oh, I *had* to organise it—Mum *needs* a break!”—and felt something inside her snap.
—
By three, the flat roared like a pub on match day. Kids shrieked, adults laughed, music blared. Claire stood at the sink, washing dishes just to clear space. Her cake sat untouched—everyone was too busy with the fondant monstrosity.
“Claire, what’re you doing back here?” Emily peeked in. “Come on, they’re doing speeches!”
“In a minute,” Claire muttered. “Just finishing these.”
“Oh, leave it!” Emily tugged her arm. “It’s *your* day!”
Claire reluctantly joined the crowd. Glasses clinked as everyone cheered, “To the birthday girl!” She smiled, nodded, but felt like an outsider. This wasn’t *her* birthday—it was Emily’s, the guests’, the chaos’s. All she’d wanted was quiet.
Back in the kitchen, she noticed her cake was *gone*. Her heart sank. She sprinted to the living room—five-year-old Oliver smeared custard on the table, while his sister Poppy flung berries at the other kids.
“Oliver! Poppy!” Claire shouted. “What are you *doing*?”
Too late. The cake was demolished—sponge crumbled, custard smeared, berries everywhere. Guests chuckled. “*Kids*, eh?” Emily just shrugged.
“Mum, don’t shout. It’s *just* a cake. We’ll order another.”
“*Just* a cake?” Claire’s eyes burned. “I stayed up all night making this! For *all* of you! And you didn’t even *taste* it!”
Silence fell. Guests exchanged glances. Emily stepped forward.
“Mum, sorry. We didn’t mean—let me clean up. You go rest.”
“*Rest*?” Claire exploded. “I’ve been on my feet since dawn! Cooking, cleaning, running after *all* of you like a maid! This was *my* birthday, Emily! *Mine*! And not *one* of you asked what *I* wanted!”
She turned to the crowd, voice shaking but firm. “Leave. All of you. Party’s over.”
“Claire, don’t be daft—” Uncle Nigel started, but she cut him off.
“*Out*! If you want a party, host it *yourselves*. My home isn’t a *community hall*!”
Guests shuffled out, some grumbling, some apologetic. Emily, flushed with shame, stammered, but Claire shook her head.
“Go. We’ll talk later.”
—
When the door shut on the last guest, Claire collapsed onto the sofa. The flat was silent—just the tick of the clock. She surveyed the wreckage: dirty plates, custard smudges, her mother’s shattered vase in the corner. But oddly, she didn’t feel angry. She felt *relieved*.
She madeAs she sipped her tea and turned another page of the photo album, Claire decided that next year, she’d book a quiet cottage by the sea—alone.
