“Oh, hello, hello, kingdom of chaos! Vicky, you’re home all day. Couldn’t you at least wash the dishes?” Mum sighed the moment she stepped into the kitchen.
Vicky was just pulling the bedsheets out of the washing machine. They drooped limply from her arms, cold and clammy against her skin. Her fingers trembled with exhaustion, her back ached, and straightening up felt like a battle.
From the other room, a sniffle. Timmy. Awake again.
“Mum, is that seriously all you can think about?” Vicky asked, her eyes dull. “You know the kids are sick.”
Lydia set a bag of oranges on the table. Her gaze swept the kitchen like a seasoned inspector before she exhaled heavily.
“I just don’t understand how you can live in such a mess. You only have two children, not ten. And a husband.”
Vicky didn’t reply. She just draped a pillowcase over the radiator and hunched there for a second. She wanted to scream—to tell Mum that two kids were plenty—but she didn’t have the energy.
All her strength had gone into Timmy’s tantrums, battling Sophie’s fever, endless meals, frantic nursery runs, and sleepless nights. It all weighed on her like an anchor. And as the cherry on top? Her mother, nitpicking about cleanliness.
Vicky retreated to the hallway for a breather. She peeked into the bedroom—Sophie was asleep, sweat-curled hair stuck to her forehead. Timmy was already sitting up, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.
“I thought you came to help,” Vicky hissed, returning to the kitchen with her son. “The dishes can wait. Just sit with the kids.”
“Vicky, whose children are they? Yours. I’m not a young woman anymore. I’d rather handle dishes than toddlers.”
“Mum! For once, could you forget about your bloody plates and stop hunting for dust? One’s got a fever, the other’s been glued to me all day! I haven’t slept in three nights. Your oranges, your lectures, your mopping—none of it helps.”
Lydia pressed her lips tight. Her nostrils flared with indignation.
“I help where I can.”
“No, you don’t help. You just criticise. Like always.”
Vicky lowered Timmy into his playpen, then snatched the bag of oranges and thrust it at her mother.
“Take these and go. Please.”
Even Timmy went quiet. Lydia eyed her daughter, then the bag, with a look of disdain. She yanked it from Vicky’s hands as if it were a ticking bomb and left.
The moment the tension eased, Vicky slumped beside the playpen and pulled Timmy close. He sneezed into her shoulder. She sighed—just what she needed.
She used to grit her teeth and endure her mother’s jabs. Because… well, it’s Mum. That’s how it is. Half her friends had relatives like this—mums, grandmas, mothers-in-law. Everyone just put up with it.
Vicky had hoped Mum might change, but she never did.
As a kid, it was the same. She’d never forget coming third in the county spelling bee. She’d got a certificate and a bar of chocolate—her little triumph. Beaming, she’d handed the chocolate to Mum. She’d wanted to say it was partly thanks to her—but she never got the chance.
“Look at your coat! Mud everywhere. Were you raised in a barn?” Mum had scolded. “You’re a girl. You should be neater.”
If Vicky got a single B in her report card, Mum lectured her for hours. When she mopped, Mum inspected behind doors and under radiators.
Lydia never praised her. At best, she stayed silent. At worst, she found fault. Compliments were rationed—and Vicky never got one.
Her husband, James, knew. He’d heard Mum say things like:
“Why do your kids need so many toys? When you were little, a few blocks and puzzles were enough.”
Vicky avoided inviting Mum for meals. But when she had to, she braced for the same old nitpicking.
“The roast’s dry again. Overcooked.”
But ask how Vicky was? Never happened.
That evening, she texted James to vent. He knew Sophie was ill, knew she was struggling, knew about her and Mum. But he was away on business. At least he could listen.
“I kicked her out,” she wrote. “No help, just stress.”
“Good,” he replied instantly. “About time.”
It was the validation she needed. Proof she’d done the right thing.
Sleep didn’t come. She woke coughing. The room was still dark—only the TV’s red standby light glowed. She fumbled for her phone. Half five. Not even dawn.
Timmy was squirming in his cot. Beside him, Sophie whimpered and tossed. Vicky sat up. Her head throbbed like a jackhammer had been at it. Her throat burned; her legs felt like jelly.
She dragged herself to the kitchen. The fridge was nearly empty—sour milk, half a pack of cheese slices, a few eggs. Somewhere, two stale bread crusts and a box of pasta lurked.
Breakfast was doable, but what then? Sophie’s medicine was running low. Vicky could use something too—but how could she leave the kids? Delivery wasn’t an option in their town, not for prescriptions.
“Need the pharmacy. No one to watch the kids. No idea what to do,” she texted James.
“I’ll ask Alice,” he replied half an hour later.
Vicky scoffed. Alice was practically fused to her phone and laptop. Between her blog, filming, editing, courses, and her actual job, she barely had time to breathe. She’d wanted a dog for ages but couldn’t commit. Now—kids? A sick sister-in-law? A last-minute favour?
Still, two hours later, the doorbell rang. There stood Alice, smoothing her messy hair, fiddling with her collar—but there.
“Water, please? Stuck in traffic—throat’s parched. Pour me some while I wash up, then I’ll see Timmy.”
Vicky nearly gaped. Alice breezed in, bent over Timmy’s cot, and grinned, tickling his fingers.
“Who’s this grumpy little man? Show me your toys. Or are you better at breaking Mummy’s hairbrushes? Heard you snapped her favourite.”
As if she’d known Timmy forever. As if they weren’t near-strangers who’d only met at holidays. As if there hadn’t been tension when she’d missed Vicky and James’s wedding for work.
Soon, Alice was feeding Timmy banana slices while typing one-handed—probably work emails.
“How’s Sophie?”
“In her room. Still feverish. Won’t drink. Syrup’s almost gone.”
“Well, what are you waiting for? Give me a list! Or go yourself—I’ll stay,” Alice huffed, though her tone was more worried than cross.
When Vicky returned, Timmy was asleep next to Alice, who sat on the floor, laptop open.
“Put cartoons on. He conked out. Not ideal, but better than everyone screaming,” Alice said, not looking up. “I’ll stay the night. Do some work here, reschedule the rest. We’ll manage.”
Something inside Vicky melted. *We’ll manage.*
She remembered needing a hospital scan in another city. James had been away then too. Timmy wasn’t born yet—just Sophie—but it’d still been exhausting.
“Mum, can you take Sophie? Two days. I need tests.”
“Oh, Vicky, absolutely not. What if something happens? I’d be blamed. No, no.”
So Vicky had rented a flat, hauling a backpack and buggy everywhere. When the doctor mentioned surgery, her stomach twisted. Please, not urgent—she couldn’t afford that luxury now.
And here? A near-stranger had shoved her plans aside to help.
The peace didn’t last.
By evening, the doorbell rang. Vicky checked the peephole and stiffened. Mum. Holding another bag. Smiling, but her eyes weren’t. Vicky sighed and opened it. Couldn’t turn her away.
She braced for more lectures, scolding in front of Alice—but Mum’s reaction topped expectations.
“Who’s *this*?” Mum whispered, toeing off her shoes.
“Alice. James’s sister. You met at his birthday,” Vicky murmured back.
“Ah. Right.” Mum’s lips pursed. “So no room for me—you throw me out—but strangers are welcome?”
Vicky blinked, then met Mum’s gaze. Something about Alice’s silent presence gave her courage.
“You know what, Mum? She doesn’t judge me by the dishes. She just helps. The way I ask. Unlike some people.”
Mum stiffened as if electrocuted. Her lips moved, but nothing came out. She just turned and left.
Vicky didn’t shut theAs the door clicked shut, Vicky realized some doors were better left closed for good.
