“Oh, hello, hello, kingdom of chaos! Vic, you’re home all the time. Couldn’t you at least wash the dishes?” her mother scolded the moment she stepped into the kitchen.
Vicky was just pulling the bedding out of the washing machine. It hung limply from her arms, cold and damp against her skin. Her fingers ached, her back throbbed, and straightening up felt like an Olympic feat.
From the other room, a sniffle. Timmy. Awake again.
“Mum, is that really all you can think about?” Vicky asked, her eyes dull. “You know the kids are ill.”
Lydia set a bag of oranges on the table. She scanned the kitchen like a seasoned inspector and sighed dramatically.
“I just don’t understand how you can live in such a pigsty. You’ve got two kids, not ten. And a husband.”
Vicky didn’t bother replying. She just draped a pillowcase over the radiator and hunched over for a moment, too exhausted to even scream. Not that it would’ve helped.
Her energy had been siphoned by Timmy’s tantrums, Sophie’s fever, the never-ending cooking, the frantic nursery prep, and the sleepless nights. It all weighed on her like an anchor. And, as the cherry on top, here was her mum, nitpicking about cleanliness.
Vicky retreated to the hallway for a breath of air. She peeked into the bedroom—Sophie was asleep, damp curls stuck to her forehead. Timmy, however, was already sitting up in his cot, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.
“I thought you came here to help,” Vicky hissed, returning to the kitchen with Timmy in her arms. “The dishes can wait. Just sit with them for once.”
“Vic, whose kids are they? Yours. I’m not exactly sprightly anymore. I’d rather tackle a sink of plates than a pair of toddlers.”
“Mum! Could you, for one second, stop obsessing over your bloody dishes and dust hunts? One’s burning up, the other’s been glued to me all day! I haven’t slept in three nights. Your oranges, your lectures, your wet wipes—none of it helps!”
Lydia’s lips pursed. Her nostrils flared indignantly.
“I’m helping how I can.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just piling on. Like always.”
Vicky lowered Timmy into his playpen, then snatched the bag of oranges and held it out to her mother.
“Take these and go. Please.”
Even Timmy fell silent. Lydia eyed her daughter, then the bag, with a scornful squint. She yanked it away as if it were a ticking bomb and stormed out.
Once the tightness in her chest eased, Vicky sank to the floor beside the playpen and pulled Timmy close. He sneezed on her shoulder. Perfect.
She’d always gritted her teeth and endured her mum’s jabs. Because… well, that’s just how mums were, right? Plenty of her friends had relatives like that—mums, grandmas, mothers-in-law. Everyone put up with it.
Vicky had hoped, one day, her mum might change. She never did.
It had been like this since childhood. One memory stuck: in Year 5, she’d placed third in a county spelling bee. She’d been given a certificate and a bar of chocolate. Beaming, she’d offered it to her mum, ready to say it was partly her doing—but never got the chance.
“Look at your coat! Mud everywhere. Is this how a young lady behaves?”
A single “4” on her report card? A full-blown lecture. If she mopped the floor, her mum would inspect behind doors and under radiators.
Lydia never praised her. At best, silence. At worst, a dig. Compliments were rationed, and Vicky never got a coupon.
Jack, her husband, knew. He’d heard Lydia say things like,
“Why do your kids need so many toys? When you were little, a puzzle and wooden blocks did the trick.”
Vicky avoided inviting her mum for meals. But when she had to, she braced for critique.
“The meat’s dry again. Overcooked.”
As for asking how Vicky was? Never happened.
That evening, she texted Jack to vent. He knew the kids were ill, knew she was struggling, knew about her mum. But he was away on business. At least he could listen.
“I kicked her out,” she wrote. “Zero help, maximum stress.”
“Good,” he replied instantly. “About time.”
It helped. Validation that she’d done the right thing.
Sleep didn’t come. She woke coughing. The room was dark, only the TV’s LED glowing red. Her phone said 5:30 AM. Not even dawn.
Timmy fussed in his cot. Sophie whimpered beside him.
Vicky sat up. Her head pounded like a construction site. Her throat burned. Her legs were lead.
She staggered to the kitchen and peered into the fridge. Bare. Sour milk, half a pack of processed cheese, a few eggs. Somewhere, two stale bread slices and a box of pasta lurked.
Breakfast might be scraped together, but what then? Sophie’s medicine was running low. And Vicky could’ve used something herself. But how could she leave the kids? Delivery was patchy here, especially for prescriptions.
“Need a pharmacy. No one to watch the kids… Dunno what to do,” she texted Jack.
“I’ll ask Alice,” he replied half an hour later.
Vicky scoffed. Alice was practically fused to her phone and laptop. Blogging, filming, editing, courses, her day job. She’d wanted a dog but couldn’t commit. And now—kids, a sick sister-in-law, a favour?
No hope there.
Yet two hours later, the doorbell rang. Alice stood there, smoothing her messy hair, fiddling with her collar—but there.
“Water, please? Stuck in traffic—throat’s parched. Pour me some, I’ll wash up and see Timmy.”
Vicky’s jaw nearly dropped. Alice breezed in, leaned over Timmy’s cot, and smiled, tickling his fingers.
“Who’s this grumpy chap? Show me your toys. Or are you more into Mum’s hairbrushes? Heard you broke her favourite.”
Like she’d known him forever. Not just seen him twice at holidays. Like there hadn’t been frost when she’d missed their wedding for work.
Soon, Alice was feeding Timmy banana, glancing at her phone—probably work emails.
“Sophie okay?” she asked.
“In her room. Fever’s hanging on. Won’t drink much. Syrup’s almost gone.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Give me a list! Or go yourself, I’ll stay.” Her voice was more worry than annoyance.
When Vicky returned, Timmy was asleep in the playpen beside Alice, who sat cross-legged with her laptop.
“Put cartoons on. Knocked him out. Not ideal, but better than everyone screaming.” She didn’t look up. “I’ll stay tonight. Do some work here, reschedule the rest. We’ll manage.”
Something inside Vicky sank, then melted. *We’ll manage.*
She remembered when she’d needed a scan in another city. Jack was away. Timmy wasn’t born yet, but even with just Sophie, it had been rough.
“Mum, can you take Sophie? Two days. Need an MRI and tests.”
“Oh, Vic, absolutely not. What if something happens? I’d be blamed. No, thank you.”
Vicky had rented a flat, dragged a backpack and pram everywhere. When the doctor mentioned surgery, her stomach twisted. Just not emergency surgery—she couldn’t swing that.
And now? Here was a near-stranger, shoving her plans aside to help.
The joy was short-lived.
That evening, the doorbell rang. Vicky checked the peephole—Mum. Another bag. A smile, but her eyes were sharp. Vicky sighed and opened it. Couldn’t exactly slam the door.
She braced for more nagging, for judgement in front of Alice, but her mum outdid herself.
“Who’s *this*?” Lydia whispered, toeing off her shoes.
“Alice. Jack’s sister. You met at his birthday,” Vicky murmured back.
“Ah. Right.” Lydia’s lips thinned. “So no room for me, but strangers are welcome?”
Vicky blinked, then met her mum’s gaze. The silent presence of backup gave her courage. Even if Alice hadn’t heard, or wasn’t interfering, Vicky realised—she wasn’t alone. Even without a doting mother.
“Y’know, Mum, she doesn’t judge me by my dishes. She just helps. The way I *ask*. Unlike some.”
Lydia flinched like she’d been zapped. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. She just turned and left.
Vicky didn’t shut the door right away.As she leaned against the door, the quiet hum of laughter from Alice and Timmy’s sleepy babble reminded her that sometimes family isn’t just who you’re born to—it’s who shows up.
