**Too Much Care**
I woke to the smell of fried onions and a strange clattering sound. The room was dark, but from the kitchen came the rattle of pots and the bubbling of something on the stove.
*Six in the morning, really?* I muttered, pulling on my dressing gown.
In the kitchen, wearing a red apron that read *”Queen of the Kitchen”*, stood my mother-in-law, Margaret. She was deftly flipping burgers in a large pan while loudly humming *”Rule, Britannia!”*
*Good morning, love!* she chirped, not turning around. *Thought I’d treat everyone to a proper fry-up! Homemade, just like David likes—no beans for him!*
*David’s still asleep,* I forced a smile. *And so was I. It’s Saturday.*
*Oh, come now, dear! The early bird catches the worm! I’ve been up since five—quick shower, a jog round the garden, you know, good for the circulation. Then I thought, why not feed the family?*
I slowly poured myself coffee. Before I could take the first sip, my own mother—Susan—burst in, wearing yoga leggings with a mat tucked under her arm.
*Alice, good! You remember—Pilates today!*
*Susan!* Margaret’s smile prickled with barely veiled poison. *Back so soon?*
*Yes!* Susan beamed. *Just nipped out for a stroll, found a lovely organic grocer, and booked us a yoga session! By the way, Maggie, frying at this hour? All that grease…*
*Try one before you judge,* Margaret took a step forward. *Lean beef, hardly any fat. David’s loved these since he was a boy—I made them every Saturday.*
*Alice doesn’t eat fried food!* Susan snapped. *Delicate stomach—steamed veg only, since she was little.*
I buried my face in my hands.
This was hell. Domestic hell.
Later, in the bathroom, round two erupted.
*Why is my flannel on the floor?!* Margaret shrieked.
*Probably because yours knocked the rest down!* Susan shot back.
*Me? I’m tidy! It’s your potions taking over! I can barely open the loo door—your serums are everywhere!*
*They’re natural remedies!*
*They’re clutter, Susan. Clutter!*
I closed my laptop. Work was impossible.
*David,* I whispered. *We need to talk.*
*Not now—finals in the game,* he waved me off.
*David.* I stood. *Either we talk, or I’m moving to the shed.*
He paused the controller and sighed. *What?*
*Two women live here. Both think this is their kitchen, their bathroom, their you.*
*It’s temporary…*
*Three weeks in,* I hissed. *I skip coffee to avoid World War Three in the kitchen. I can’t use the loo without dodging face creams. Yesterday, your mum rearranged my books by height. Mine cancelled Netflix for Dancing on Ice.*
*They mean well…*
*Right. Tomorrow they’ll burn each other at the stake—using my favourite novels as kindling.*
The next morning, the Great British Cook-Off began.
Margaret started on her *signature roast beef*. Susan retaliated with a *fat-free lentil stew*. Both attacked cabbages with matching fury.
*David always eats my roast—with Yorkshire puddings!* Margaret declared.
*Because you trained him to!* Susan countered. *Thirty’s too old for such stodgy food—health matters!*
*A mother’s love matters more than your spin classes!*
*Spin *is* health! Your roast is a heart attack on a plate!*
I snapped.
*Enough! I have preferences too—and it’s neither roast nor sad lentils. Where are my cornflakes?!*
*Bin. Processed junk,* they chorused.
*What?—*
I walked out. A light drizzle fell. I zipped my jacket, nudged the dog aside, and wandered aimlessly.
An hour later, David caught up—cycling one-handed, umbrella aloft, a Thermos in his basket.
*I get it,* he said. *This is mad.*
*You think?* I kept walking.
*I’ll talk to them.*
*Don’t talk. Fix it.*
That evening, I called a summit. All four of us sat at the table.
*Dear mothers,* I began. *We love you. But living together is like locking a lion and a panther in one zoo.*
*Who’s the panther?!* Margaret bristled.
*Clearly, I’m the lion,* Susan smirked.
*Stop!* David raised his hands. *Solution: we’ve got a garden cottage. But only one. So—rotations.*
*What?* Both narrowed their eyes.
*Weekly swaps. One week here, one in the cottage.*
*I can’t cook without a proper oven!* Margaret protested.
*It’s got one,* David said.
*I need my Epsom baths!* Susan cut in.
*There’s a shower. We’ll add a diffuser,* I offered.
*Unacceptable!* they cried in unison.
*Then *both* move out. Permanently.*
*Blackmail!* Margaret gasped.
*Liberation,* I corrected.
Next morning, the house smelled only of coffee—single cup, no fry-up.
I stepped onto the patio. Both mums sat there, wrapped in blankets, sipping tea.
*We’ll compromise,* Margaret said tersely.
*But I’m *first* back in the house,* Susan added.
*Why you?!*
*Seniority.*
*Rubbish—*
*MUM.* I held up a hand. *Share, or I move out. Alone. With the dog. And my yoga mat.*
Silence.
Then—laughter. Both of them.
*Fine, Maggie,* Susan sighed, unexpectedly soft. *You go first.*
*Thanks, Susan. I… appreciate that.*
*Still not eating your roast. But it *does* smell nice.*
*I’ll teach you to make it without dripping?*
*And I’ll show you flourless lemon cake?*
I sank into a chair, eyes closed. Quiet. Peace. And coffee.
One week later…
The fragile truce held. Until Saturday.
I was savouring my first proper lie-in—no fry-ups, no Hoover at dawn, no lectures on *how *could* you marry a man who burns pasta?* David snored beside me, hugging a pillow. The dog was quiet. Perfection.
Then—the doorbell.
Baffled, I shuffled to the door.
Standing there was… David’s *grandmother*.
*Hello, dear! Came to visit the family. Grandson, great-grand… well, you know.*
*Great-grand—?* I blinked. *We don’t have kids.*
*Oh, just planning ahead!* She bustled in with a suitcase. *Where are my girls?*
*Girls?* I thought. *Oh no…*
Margaret swooped in, radiant. *Mum! You’re here!*
Susan emerged from the cottage, hair in a scarf. *Who’s shouting at this hour? Oh. Granny Edith. Hello.*
*You still here?* Edith squinted at Susan. *Thought you’d be at your spa retreat.*
*Thought *you* were in Bournemouth,* Susan smiled sweetly.
*Now there’s three of them,* I muttered, making coffee. *Three women, three recipes for Sunday lunch, three universes of *opinion*.*
Granny Edith was the antithesis of both mums—stoic, thrifty, with humour drier than her *plain oatcakes for dinner* philosophy. She emptied the fridge of *”faddy salads”*, claimed the telly for *Countdown*, and took notes *”to keep sharp.”*
*Phones rot the brain,* she sniffed when Susan suggested apps.
I drowned them out with headphones, pretending to work. Three commanders-in-chief under one roof.
Lunch was a battlefield: Edith’s *bone broth (“no carrots—sugar!”)*, Margaret’s *roast chicken (“for David’s *stamina*”)*, Susan’s *quinoa salad (“detox *before* poisoning”)*. David peeked in, paled, and fled.
*He’s cracking too,* I realised. *Time to save this marriage before we’re whispering via fridge magnets.*
That evening, I proposed neutral ground: *family game night.*
Sceptical but bored, they agreed. Tea, apple crumble, and *Cards Against Humanity*—lightly censored.
*What *is* this rubbish?* Edith scowled.
*You pick a card, say a phrase, others guess which is yours,* I explained.
*Fine. ‘Peace and quiet.’* She slapped down a card of an empty library.
*Christ, grim,* Margaret muttered.
*Mine’s ‘The next morning, I woke to the smell of fresh scones—baked by all three women together—and realized, with amused exhaustion, that this chaos was, somehow, home.
