**Diary Entry – 9th October**
*”Oh, hello there, kingdom of chaos! Sophie, you’re home all the time—couldn’t you at least wash the dishes?”* Mum scolded the second she stepped into the kitchen.
Sophie was just pulling bedding out of the washing machine. It hung limply from her hands, damp and cold against her skin. Her fingers trembled with exhaustion, her back ached, and straightening up felt like a challenge.
From the other room came a sniffle. Oliver. Awake again.
*”Mum, is that really all you can think about?”* Sophie asked, her dull eyes meeting her mother’s. *”You know the kids are ill.”*
Eleanor set a bag of oranges on the table. She scanned the kitchen like an inspector and sighed, disappointed.
*”I just don’t understand how you can live in such a pigsty. Two kids, Sophie. Not ten. And a husband.”*
Sophie didn’t reply. She just draped the pillowcase over the radiator and hunched for a moment, shoulders heavy. She wanted to scream—to say that two children *were* hard—but she didn’t have the energy left.
Her strength had gone into Oliver’s tantrums, Emily’s fever, endless cooking, frantic nursery prep, and sleepless nights. It all weighed on her like a boulder. And, just to top it off, Mum with her obsession over cleanliness.
Sophie slipped into the hallway, desperate for a breath. Peeking into the bedroom, she found Emily asleep, curls stuck to her damp forehead. Oliver was already sitting up in his cot, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.
*”I thought you came to help,”* Sophie hissed, returning to the kitchen with her son. *”The dishes can wait—just sit with them for once.”*
*”Sophie, they’re *your* children. I’m not young anymore. Dishes are easier than kids.”*
*”Mum! Can you forget the bloody plates and stop hunting dust for *one second*? One’s got a fever, the other won’t let me put him down! I haven’t slept in three nights. Your oranges, your lectures, your mopping—none of it helps!”*
Eleanor’s lips thinned. Her nostrils flared.
*”I *am* helping.”*
*”No. You’re judging. Like always.”*
Sophie lowered Oliver into his playpen, then snatched the bag of fruit and held it out.
*”Take your oranges and go. Please.”*
Even Oliver went quiet. Eleanor gave her a scathing look, then the bag. She yanked it away like it might explode and left without another word.
When her chest stopped burning, Sophie sank onto the floor beside the playpen and pulled Oliver close. He sneezed on her shoulder. She sighed—just what she needed.
She used to endure it—clenched teeth, swallowed words. Because… well, she’s *Mum*. That’s how it’s done. Plenty of her friends had mothers, grandmothers, in-laws just like this. *Everyone puts up with it.*
She’d hoped, one day, Mum might change. She never did.
It’d been the same since childhood. One memory stuck: Year 5, coming third in the county spelling bee. She’d been given a certificate and a bar of chocolate. Beaming, she’d handed it to Mum, about to say it was partly *her* victory—
*”You’ve mud on your coat *again*! Walking round like that—what will people think?”*
One B in her report card meant a lecture. If she mopped floors, Mum checked behind doors and under radiators.
Eleanor never praised her. At best, silence. At worst, a jab. Compliments were rationed, and Sophie’s share always ran out.
James, her husband, knew. He’d heard Mum say things like:
*”Why so many toys? When *you* were little, puzzles and wooden blocks were enough.”*
Sophie avoided inviting Mum for dinner. When she *had* to, she braced for criticism:
*”The roast’s dry again. Overdone.”*
But asking how Sophie was? Never.
That evening, she texted James just to vent. He knew the kids were ill, knew she was struggling, knew about Mum—but he was away on business. At least he could listen.
*”I sent her away,”* she typed. *”No help, just stress.”*
*”Good,”* he replied instantly. *”About time.”*
Relief. Validation. Someone else had seen it too.
Sleep didn’t come. She woke coughing. The room was dark, the TV’s standby light glowing red. Phone under her pillow—5:30 a.m. Not even dawn.
Oliver fussed in his cot. Emily whimpered nearby.
Sophie sat up. Her head pounded. Her throat burned. Her legs felt like lead.
She stumbled to the kitchen. The fridge was nearly empty: sour milk, a scrap of cheese, eggs. Stale bread and pasta somewhere. Breakfast might scrape together, but what then? Emily’s medicine was running low. Sophie needed some herself. But how to go with sick kids at home? Deliveries weren’t reliable here, not for prescriptions.
*”Need the chemist. No one to watch the kids—what do I do?”* she texted James.
*”I’ll ask Charlotte,”* he replied half an hour later.
Sophie scoffed. Charlotte lived glued to her phone—blog, shoots, editing, courses, her actual job. She couldn’t even get a dog for lack of time. Now sick kids, a frazzled sister-in-law, last-minute favours?
No hope. But two hours later, the doorbell rang. Charlotte stood there, smoothing windswept hair, adjusting her collar—but she’d *come*.
*”Water, please? Traffic was murder. I’ll wash up, then see to Ollie.”*
Sophie nearly gaped. Charlotte breezed in, bent over the cot, smiled, and touched his fingers.
*”Who’s this grumpy chap? Show me your toys—or are you the master of Mummy’s hairbrushes? Heard you broke her favourite.”*
As if she’d known him forever. As if she hadn’t missed their wedding for work.
Soon, she was feeding Oliver banana, glancing at her phone—work emails, probably.
*”How’s Emily?”* she asked.
*”Fever won’t break. Won’t drink. Syrup’s almost gone.”*
*”Well, what are you waiting for? Give me a list! Or go yourself—I’ll stay.”*
When Sophie returned, Oliver was asleep in the playpen beside Charlotte, 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 Sophie thawed. *We’ll manage.*
She remembered needing an MRI last year. James was away. Oliver wasn’t born yet, but even with just Emily—
*”Mum, can you take Em for two days? I’ve got hospital tests.”*
*”Oh, Sophie, absolutely not. What if something happens? I’ll get blamed. Don’t put that on me.”*
She’d rented a flat, dragged Emily along in her pram. When the doctor mentioned possible surgery, her stomach knotted. *Please not urgent—*she couldn’t afford that luxury.
Now? Here was Charlotte—practically a stranger—shoving her plans aside to help.
It didn’t last.
That evening, the doorbell rang. Mum stood there, clutching another bag. Smiling, but her eyes were sharp. Sophie opened the door. Couldn’t turn her away.
She braced for more lectures, for judgement in front of Charlotte—but Mum’s reaction stunned her.
*”Who’s *this*?”* she whispered, toeing off her shoes.
*”Charlotte. James’s sister. You met at his birthday.”*
*”Ah. Right.”* Mum’s lips pursed. *”So *I* get thrown out, but strangers are welcome?”*
Sophie blinked, then met her eyes. Charlotte’s silent presence gave her courage.
*”She doesn’t judge me by the dishes. She helps—*how I ask*. Unlike some.”*
Mum stiffened, as if shocked. Her mouth moved, but no words came. She just turned and left.
Sophie didn’t shut the door at once. But when the lock clicked, it felt like closing more than a door. A whole chapter.
She knew Mum wasn’t purely wicked. She remembered Nana.
Eight years old, at the countryside cottage. Nana arrived a day late, then berated Mum like a drill sergeant:
*”Filth in the corners! Can’t even sweep? And the windows—look at those screens! Dust an inch thick! People will laugh—say my daughter’She finally understood—some cycles aren’t meant to be repeated, only broken.
