He Will Live Among Us…

The shrill ring of the doorbell announced a visitor. Lucy tossed her apron aside, wiped her hands, and went to answer. Her daughter stood on the doorstep with a young man in tow. The woman let them into the flat.

“Hi, Mum,” her daughter pecked her on the cheek. “Meet Vinnie—he’s moving in with us.”

“Hello,” the lad muttered.
“And this is my mum, Auntie Lucy.”
“*Lucille Victoria*,” she corrected sharply.
“Mum, what’s for tea?”
“Mashed peas and sausages.”

“I don’t eat mashed peas,” the boy said, kicking off his trainers and striding into the living room.
“Seriously, Mum? Vinnie hates peas,” the girl gasped, wide-eyed.
He flopped onto the sofa, tossing his rucksack onto the floor.
“This is *my* living room,” Lucille pointed out.
“Vinnie, come on, I’ll show you where we’re staying,” called Lottie.
“I like it right here,” he grumbled, dragging himself up.
“Mum, figure out something else to feed him, yeah?”
“Dunno. We’ve got half a pack of sausages left,” Lucy shrugged.
“Fine. Mustard, ketchup, and bread’ll do,” he called back.
“Lovely,” was all Lucy could manage before heading to the kitchen. “First it was stray kittens, now *this*. Feeding him too, am I?”

She spooned herself a helping of peas, slapped two fried bangers onto her plate, nudged the salad bowl closer, and dug in.
“Mum, why’re you eating alone?” Her daughter barged in.
“Because I got home from work and I’m starving,” Lucy said between bites. “If you want food, serve yourself or cook. And while we’re at it—why’s Vinnie moving in?”
“‘Cause he’s my *husband*.”

Lucy nearly choked.
“Your *what*?”
“Yeah, that’s right. I’m grown now—don’t need your permission. I’m *nineteen*, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“You didn’t even invite me to the wedding.”
“Wasn’t one. Just signed the papers. Now we’re married, so we live together,” Lottie shot back, eyeing her chewing mother.
“Well, congratulations. Why no wedding?”
“If *you’ve* got spare cash for a do, hand it over. We’ll put it to better use.”
“Right,” Lucy kept shovelling food. “And *here* because?”
“His lot’s got a one-bed flat. Four of ’em squeezed in like sardines.”

“Renting not an option?”
“Why waste money when my room’s free?” Lottie scoffed.
“Got it.”
“So, you feeding us or what?”
“Lottie, the peas are on the hob, sausages in the pan. If that’s not enough, there’s half a pack in the fridge. Help yourself.”
“Mum, you don’t get it—you’ve got a *SON-IN-LAW* now,” she hissed.
“And? Want me to Morris dance to celebrate? I’m knackered, love. Sort yourselves out.”
“No wonder you’re still single!”

Lottie stormed off, slamming the door. Lucy finished eating, washed up, wiped the table, and headed to her room to change. Bag in hand, she left for the gym—a free woman, spending her evenings lifting weights or swimming laps.

By ten, she returned, craving a cuppa—only to find the kitchen wrecked. Someone’d botched cooking. The pea pot’s lid was missing, the mash cracked and dry. Sausage wrappers littered the table, alongside stale, unwrapped bread. The frying pan was scorched, its non-stick coating gouged by a fork. The sink was piled high, and a sticky puddle gleamed on the floor. The flat reeked of fags.

“Blimey. New low.”
She pushed open Lottie’s door. The pair were sipping wine, smoking.
“Lottie, clean that mess. And you’re replacing that pan tomorrow,” Lucy said, leaving the door ajar.
Lottie leapt up, chasing after her.
“Why *us*? And where d’you expect me to get pan money? I’m a *student*! What, skint over a pan?”
“House rules: clean up after yourself. Break it, replace it. That pan wasn’t cheap.”
“You just don’t want us here!”
“Nope,” Lucy said flatly.
The last thing she fancied was a row—Lottie’d never been like this before.
“But I’ve got rights to this place!”

“Nope. Flat’s mine—bought with my wages. You’re just registered here. Fix your own problems. Stay? Follow the rules.”
“I’ve lived by *your* rules *forever*! I’m married now—you don’t get to boss me!” Lottie shrieked. “You’ve had your turn—hand the flat over!”
“I’ll hand you the *pavement*. Married? Didn’t ask me. You can stay—*alone*. He’s not living here.”
“Choke on your flat, then! Vinnie—we’re *leaving*!”

Five minutes later, the so-called son-in-law barged in.
“Listen, *Mum*,” he slurred, swaying, “we ain’t budging. Play nice, and we’ll keep the nighttime noise down—got me?”
“I’m not your *mum*. Yours are wherever you crawled from—take your missus and *go*.”
“Right, you’re asking for it—” He swung a fist at her face.

Lucy grabbed his wrist, manicured nails digging in.
“Ow—mental cow, let *go*!”
“Mum, *stop*!” Lottie yanked at her.
Lucy shoved her aside, kneed Vinnie square in the groin, then elbowed his throat.
“I’ll press charges!” he squealed.
“Hold on—I’ll ring the coppers to make it easier,” Lucy said.
The pair scarpered, abandoning the cosy two-bed flat.

“You’re *dead* to me!” Lottie screamed. “No grandkids *ever*!”
“Tragic,” Lucy drawled. “Might finally get some peace.”
She inspected her hands—nails chipped.
“Costing me a fortune, you lot.”

After scrubbing the kitchen, binning the ruined food and pan, she changed the locks.
Three months later, near work, a gaunt Lottie approached.
“Mum… what’s for tea?”
“Dunno. Fancy something?”
“Roast chicken and rice,” she gulped. “And potato salad.”
“Let’s get the chicken, then,” Lucy said. “You make the salad.”
She asked no questions. Vinnie never resurfaced.

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He Will Live Among Us…