The ear-splitting chime of the doorbell announced an unwelcome visitor. Lucy tossed aside her apron, wiped her hands, and went to answer. Her daughter stood on the doorstep with a young man in tow. Lucy let them inside.
“Hey, Mum,” her daughter pecked her on the cheek, “meet Dave—he’s moving in with us.”
“Alright,” mumbled the lad.
“And this is my mum, Auntie Lucy.”
“Mrs. Ludmilla Wilson,” she corrected.
“Mum, what’s for dinner?”
“Mashed peas and bangers.”
“I don’t eat mushy peas,” Dave declared, kicked off his trainers, and slouched into the living room.
“Oh, come on, Mum, Dave hates peas,” her daughter gasped, eyes wide as saucers.
The sofa now bore the weight of Dave’s sprawled limbs, his rucksack dumped unceremoniously on the floor.
“That’s *my* sofa, incidentally,” Ludmilla pointed out.
“Dave, come on, I’ll show you where *we* live,” chirped Emily.
“Nah, I’m good here,” he grunted, reluctantly hauling himself up.
“Mum, could you sort something else for Dave to eat?”
“Well, there’s half a pack of sausages left,” Lucy shrugged.
“Fair enough, with mustard, ketchup, and a bit of bread,” Dave chimed in.
“Brilliant,” Lucy deadpanned, heading to the kitchen. “First, it was stray kittens, now *this*? Next, I’ll be feeding him by hand.”
She dished herself a hearty portion of mushy peas, slapped two fried bangers on the plate, nudged the salad bowl closer, and dug in.
“Mum, why are you eating alone?” Emily marched into the kitchen.
“Because I just got home from work and I’m starving,” Lucy said between bites. “Anyone else hungry knows where the stove is. And while we’re at it—why *is* Dave moving in?”
“Because he’s my *husband*.”
Lucy nearly choked.
“Your *what*?”
“Yeah, that’s right. I’m a grown woman—I decide when I get married. I’m nineteen, you know.”
“You didn’t even *invite* me to the wedding.”
“There wasn’t one. Just signed the papers. Now we’re married, so we live together,” Emily said, side-eyeing her chewing mother.
“Well, congrats. But why skip the wedding?”
“Well, if you’ve got money for a proper do, you could just hand it over. We’d put it to better use.”
“Right,” Lucy kept shovelling food into her mouth, “and why *here*?”
“Because his flat’s a shoebox crammed with four people.”
“So renting wasn’t an option?”
“Why rent when I’ve got *my* room?” Emily blinked.
“Right.”
“So, are you making us dinner or what?”
“Emily, the peas are on the stove, bangers 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 overenunciated.
“And? Should I break into the Macarena to celebrate? Emily, I’ve had a long day. Hands and feet still work—sort yourselves out.”
“No wonder you’re still single!”
Emily shot her a glare and stormed off, slamming the bedroom door. Lucy finished eating, washed up, wiped the table, and retreated to change. Gym bag in hand, she headed out—a free woman, spending her evenings lifting weights or lounging in the pool.
By ten, she was back, dreaming of tea—only to find the kitchen looking like a student flat post-party. The mashed peas had fossilised in the uncovered pot. Sausage wrappers littered the table alongside a hardened loaf of bread, free from its bag. The non-stick pan was scratched beyond salvation, probably by a careless fork. The sink was stacked with dirty dishes, and a syrupy puddle gleamed on the floor. The flat reeked of cigarettes.
“Well, that’s new. Emily wouldn’t dare leave a crumb out of place.”
She pushed open her daughter’s door. The newlyweds were nursing wine and puffing away.
“Emily, clean the kitchen. And you’re buying a new pan tomorrow.”
“Why should *we* clean? And where am I supposed to get the money? I’m a student, not a bank!”
“House rules, love: eat—clean up, make a mess—clean it, break something—replace it. And yes, I *do* mind about the pan. Those don’t grow on trees.”
“You just don’t want us here!” Emily spat.
“Got it in one,” Lucy said flatly.
“But I *own* part of this place!”
“Nope. The flat’s mine—every brick. You’re registered here, that’s all. Sort your own problems. Want to stay? Follow the rules.”
“I’ve *always* lived by your rules! I’m married now—you can’t boss me around!” Emily shrieked.
“The corridor’s free. Bench outside too. Married? Lovely. Sleep here alone or with hubby—elsewhere. He’s not moving in,” Lucy said, steel in her voice.
“Ugh, choke on your stupid flat! Dave, we’re *leaving*!” Emily screeched, stuffing clothes into a bag.
Five minutes later, the fresh-faced son-in-law barged in.
“Listen, *Mum*—play nice, yeah?” he slurred, swaying slightly. “We ain’t leaving. Behave, and we’ll keep the *noise* down tonight.”
“I’m *not* your mum. Yours are still at home—off you pop, and take the missus with you.”
“Oh yeah?” He raised a fist—
Lucy grabbed it, manicured nails digging in like talons.
“OW! Mental!”
“MUM, STOP!” Emily wailed, tugging at her.
Lucy shoved her aside, kneed Dave where it hurt, then elbowed his throat.
“I’ll press charges!” he wheezed.
“Hold on, I’ll call the police now—save you the trouble.”
The pair fled the comfortable two-bed flat pronto.
“You’re *dead* to me!” Emily howled on her way out. “You’ll *never* see your grandkids!”
“What a tragedy,” Lucy mused. “Peace at last.”
She inspected her nails—several casualties. “Nothing but loss with you lot.”
After scrubbing the kitchen, binning the pan and the fossilised peas, she changed the locks.
Three months later, outside work, a gaunt Emily approached, hollow-cheeked and miserable.
“Mum… what’s for dinner?”
“Dunno. Fancy anything?”
“Roast chicken and rice,” Emily swallowed. “And maybe a bit of potato salad.”
“Right then—shop’s this way,” Lucy said. “You’re making the salad.”
She didn’t ask questions. Dave never resurfaced.
(Author: Evgenia Potapova, adapted)
