The shrill ring of the doorbell announced an unexpected 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 ushered them inside.
“Hi, Mum,” her daughter pecked her on the cheek. “Meet Jake—he’s moving in with us.”
“Evening,” the young man muttered.
“And this is my mum, Aunt Lucy.”
“Lucille Margaret,” she corrected.
“Mum, what’s for dinner?”
“Mash and bangers.”
“I don’t eat mash,” the lad replied, kicked off his trainers, and slouched into the living room.
“Seriously, Mum? Jake doesn’t fancy peas,” the girl gasped, eyes wide.
He sprawled on the sofa, dropping his rucksack on the floor.
“That’s *my* sitting room,” Lucille said sharply.
“Jake, come on, I’ll show you where we’ll stay,” called Emily.
“I like it here,” he grumbled but dragged himself up.
“Mum, figure out something else for Jake to eat.”
“Dunno—we’ve half a pack of sausages left,” Lucy shrugged.
“Fine. With mustard, ketchup, and bread,” he called back.
“Lovely,” was all Lucy could muster before retreating to the kitchen. “First it was stray kittens, now this. Feed him yourself.”
She scooped herself a helping of mash, slapped two fried sausages on the plate, nudged the salad bowl closer, and dug in.
“Mum, why’re you eating alone?” Emily barged in.
“Because I’m starving after work,” Lucy said between bites. “If anyone’s hungry, they can serve themselves. And while we’re at it—why’s Jake moving in?”
“Because he’s my *husband*.”
Lucy nearly choked.
“Since when?”
“Since today. I’m nineteen—old enough to decide for myself. Didn’t need a fuss.”
“You didn’t even invite me to the wedding.”
“There wasn’t one. Just signed the papers. So now we live together,” Emily said, eyeing her chewing mother.
“Congratulations. Why skip the wedding?”
“If you’ve got money for one, hand it over—we’ll put it to better use.”
“Right,” Lucy stabbed another bite. “And why *here*?”
“His family’s crammed in a one-bed flat. Four of them.”
“So renting was out of the question?”
“Why bother when I’ve got my own room?”
“Fair enough.”
“Well? You making us food or what?”
“Em, pot’s on the stove, sausages in the pan. Half a pack left in the fridge. Help yourself.”
“Mum, you don’t get it—you’ve got a *son-in-law* now,” Emily hissed.
“And? Want a parade? I’m knackered, love. Sort yourselves out.”
“No wonder you’re still single!”
Emily stormed off, slamming the door. Lucy finished eating, washed up, wiped the table, and headed to her room. Changed, grabbed her gym bag, and left for the leisure centre. She valued her freedom—three evenings a week were hers, weights or laps.
By ten, she returned. The kitchen was a bombsite—someone had attempted cooking. The mash had hardened, lid vanished. Sausage wrappers littered the table alongside stale, unwrapped bread. The non-stick pan was scorched, fork-scratched. A sticky puddle glistened on the floor, the sink piled high. The flat reeked of fags.
“Well, this is new. Emily’s never been this sloppy.”
She pushed open her daughter’s door. The pair were swigging wine, smoking.
“Em, clean the kitchen. And you’re replacing that pan tomorrow.”
“Why should we? I’m a student—no cash for pans. What, skint over a *pan*?”
“House rules: clean up your mess. Break it, replace it. That pan wasn’t cheap.”
“You don’t want us here,” Emily snapped.
“Spot on.”
“But I’ve a right to this place!”
“Nope. Flat’s mine—bought it, paid for it. You’re just on the lease. Want to stay? Follow the rules.”
“I’ve lived by your rules forever. I’m married now—you don’t get to boss me!” Emily shrieked. “You’ve had your turn—hand it over.”
“You can have the hallway bench. Married? Didn’t ask me. He’s not staying.”
“Choke on your flat, then! Jake, we’re leaving!” Emily screeched, yanking out drawers.
Five minutes later, the “son-in-law” barged in.
“Listen, *Mum*,” he slurred, swaying, “We’re not scramming. Play nice, we’ll keep the noise down.”
“*Mum*? Yours are elsewhere—take your wife and *go*.”
“Right, you’ve asked for it—” He swung a fist.
Lucy caught his wrist, nails digging in.
“Ow—mental cow, let go!”
“Mum, stop!” Emily clawed at her.
Lucy shoved her aside, kneed Jake hard, then elbowed his throat.
“I’ll press charges!” he wheezed.
“Hold on—I’ll call the coppers to note it properly.”
The pair fled the tidy two-bed flat.
“You’re dead to me!” Emily screamed. “No grandkids for you!”
“What a shame,” Lucy deadpanned. “Peace at last.”
She inspected her chipped manicure. “Nothing but trouble.”
After scrubbing the kitchen, binning the mash and ruined pan, she changed the locks.
Three months later, a gaunt Emily approached her near work.
“Mum… what’s for dinner?”
“Dunno. Fancy something?”
“Chicken and rice,” Emily sniffed. “And potato salad.”
“Let’s get a chicken, then. You make the salad.”
She asked no questions. Jake never resurfaced.
The lesson? Boundaries save more than kitchens.
