The shrill ring of the doorbell cut through the quiet flat. Lucy tossed her apron aside, wiped her hands, and went to answer. Her daughter stood on the doorstep with a young man in tow. Lucy let them inside.
“Hi, Mum,” her daughter pecked her cheek. “Meet Brad—he’s moving in with us.”
“Evening,” the lad mumbled.
“And this is Mum—Auntie Lucy.”
“Lucy Margaret,” she corrected.
“Mum, what’s for dinner?”
“Mashed peas and bangers.”
“I don’t eat mashed peas,” Brad said, kicking off his trainers and striding into the living room.
“Come on, Mum, Brad hates peas,” her daughter widened her eyes dramatically.
The lad flopped onto the sofa, dropping his rucksack on the floor.
“That’s my room, actually,” Lucy said.
“Brad, come on, I’ll show you where we’re staying,” Emily called.
“I like it here,” he grumbled, hauling himself up.
“Mum, can you sort something else for Brad to eat?”
“Not sure—there’s half a pack of sausages left,” Lucy shrugged.
“Fine. With mustard, ketchup, and bread,” he called back.
“Lovely,” Lucy muttered, heading to the kitchen. “First it was stray kittens, now this. Feed him yourself.”
She piled mashed peas onto her plate, slapped on two fried bangers, pushed a salad bowl closer, and dug in.
“Mum, why’re you eating alone?” Emily marched in.
“Because I just got home from work and I’m starving,” Lucy said around a mouthful. “If you’re hungry, serve yourself. And while we’re at it—why’s Brad moving in?”
“Because he’s my husband.”
Lucy nearly choked.
“Your what?”
“Well, yeah. I’m nineteen, Mum. I decide if I get married.”
“You didn’t even invite me to the wedding.”
“There wasn’t one. We just signed the papers. Now we’re living together,” Emily said, eyeing her chewing mother.
“Congratulations. Why no wedding?”
“If you’ve got money for one, hand it over—we’ll find a use for it.”
“Right,” Lucy kept eating. “And why here?”
“Because his family’s packed into a one-bed flat.”
“Renting wasn’t an option?”
“Why would we rent when I’ve got my own room?”
“Fair enough.”
“So, are you gonna feed us?”
“Em, the peas are on the stove, sausages in the pan. If that’s not enough, there’s half a pack in the fridge. Help yourselves.”
“Mum, you don’t get it—you’ve got a SON-IN-LAW now,” Emily hissed.
“And? Should I break into a jig? I’m tired, love. Sort yourselves out.”
“No wonder you’re still single!”
Emily stormed out, slamming the door. Lucy finished eating, washed up, wiped the table, then changed and headed to the gym. She cherished her freedom—three nights a week, it was weights, laps, and peace.
By ten, she returned, craving tea—only to find the kitchen wrecked. The mashed peas had crusted over, the lid missing. Sausage wrappers littered the table beside stale, unwrapped bread. The frying pan was scorched, its coating scraped by a fork. Sticky puddles glistened on the floor, and cigarette smoke clung to the air.
“Impressive. Never known Em to leave a mess like this.”
She shoved open her daughter’s door. The pair were drinking wine, smoke curling above them.
“Emily, clean the kitchen. And replace that pan tomorrow.”
“Why should we? I’m at uni—where d’you expect me to get money? Scared I’ll nick your precious pans?”
“House rules: clean up after yourself. That pan wasn’t cheap.”
“You just don’t want us here.”
“Got it in one.”
“This is my home too!”
“No, it isn’t. I bought this flat. You’re a tenant. Follow the rules or leave.”
“I’ve lived by your rules my whole life. I’m married now—you don’t own me,” Emily shrieked. “You’ve had your turn. Hand over the flat.”
“Tell you what—I’ll give you the pavement outside. Married? Fine. Sleep here alone or take him somewhere else. He’s not staying.”
“Choke on your stupid flat! Brad, we’re leaving!”
Five minutes later, her so-called son-in-law barged in.
“Listen, Mum—play nice, yeah?” he swayed, breath reeking of booze. “We’re not leaving at this hour. Behave, and we’ll keep the noise down tonight.”
“I’m not your bloody mum,” Lucy snapped. “Take your wife and crawl back to your parents.”
His fist shot toward her face.
“Try it.”
Lucy caught his wrist, nails digging in. He yelped.
“Mum, stop!” Emily clawed at her.
Lucy shoved her aside, drove a knee into Brad’s groin, then elbowed his throat.
“I’ll report you!” he wheezed.
“Hold on—I’ll call the police to save you the trip.”
They fled, abandoning the flat.
“You’re dead to me!” Emily screamed. “You’ll never see your grandkids!”
“What a tragedy,” Lucy muttered. “Peace at last.”
She glanced at her chipped nails.
“Costly little pests.”
She scrubbed the kitchen, binned the ruined pan, and changed the locks.
Three months later, Emily appeared outside Lucy’s work—hollow-cheeked, gaunt.
“Mum… what’s for dinner?”
“Dunno,” Lucy said. “What d’you fancy?”
“Roast chicken and rice,” Emily swallowed. “And potato salad.”
“Let’s get the chicken, then. You make the salad.”
She asked no questions. Brad never resurfaced.
(Author—Evgenia Potapova)
