The Weight of Peace
“Morning,” muttered Dana as she walked into the office, slumping into her chair and powering up her computer.
“Good morning,” replied Olivia and Emily, exchanging puzzled glances before shrugging.
Dana, usually chatty and easygoing, sat in silence, her expression as gloomy as the grey, rain-heavy clouds outside. The office stayed quiet until Olivia, who could never stand long silences, broke in.
“Girls, coffee? I’ll make us some,” she said, rising from her desk and moving behind the partition where a small coffee machine sat, alongside mugs, a jar of sweets, and other bits and pieces.
“Go on, then,” Emily agreed, while Dana stayed silent.
There were three of them in the office. Dana was married with a son, thirty years old. Olivia, thirty-six, was also married, with two children. Emily, at twenty-seven, lived with her boyfriend but had never been married.
Olivia was the boldest—whether because she was older or just naturally assertive, she always took the lead, and the others followed.
She emerged from behind the partition with a small tray holding three mugs of coffee. She stopped by Dana’s desk first; Dana took the mug with a silent nod of thanks, while Emily said,
“Ta, Olivia, you’re the office mum.”
The two laughed. Dana managed a faint smile. Olivia was the first to crack.
“Dana, what’s wrong? Stop sulking. You’re making me uneasy—like we’ve done something wrong.”
“Don’t be daft, Olivia. It’s home stuff,” Dana replied.
“Fallen out with Mike?” Emily asked, surprised. They all knew Dana and Mike had a happy marriage—hardly any rows, at least none Dana ever complained about.
“Not exactly at home. With family.”
“Ohhh, is Lizzie at it again? Honestly, just ignore her,” the others advised.
“How can I? We live in the same cul-de-sac! We’re not renting—we own that house. Mike doesn’t let her bother him, and his brother Jake’s fine, but Lizzie… she’s something else. I finally told her off last night. Now I don’t know how we’ll live next to each other.”
When Dana married Mike, his father had just finished building a house next to his own in their shared yard. After the wedding, Mike and Dana moved straight in—the main house already held Jake, his wife Lizzie, and their young son. Both houses were solid, well-built. Mike’s father had been a foreman in construction, so materials came cheap.
But barely a week after the wedding, tragedy struck. Mike and Jake’s parents died in a crash. Since then, the brothers had lived side by side in the same yard.
At first, things were fine. Lizzie and Dana had children around the same time—Dana her first son, Lizzie her second child, a daughter. Life ran in parallel.
“Mike, isn’t it lovely living next to your brother?” Dana used to say.
“It’s alright,” was Mike’s usual reserved reply.
As the children grew, both women returned to work. The kids went to nursery. Life went on—until Dana realised she and Lizzie were nothing alike.
Dana and Mike never fought. But from Jake’s house, shouts and rows often spilled through open windows—Lizzie broadcasting her temper.
“Lizzie’s at it again,” Mike would mutter. “Poor Jake.”
Dana was quiet, gentle. Lizzie was loud, insistent.
“I like things calm,” Dana often said. “My family is my whole world. I love peace, quiet—and Mike’s the same. We’re lucky that way.”
It was true. Dana had grown up in a loving home, never hearing her parents argue. That shaped her.
Lizzie was the opposite. “We should stick together!” she’d say. “One big family!”
Dana understood—but disagreed. “We’re relatives, yes. But my family is Mike and our son.”
Mike felt the same. But Lizzie’s intrusions wore Dana down.
The real issue? Lizzie acted like she owned the entire yard. By some unspoken rule as the elder sister-in-law, she’d taken charge. Dana had quietly accepted it at first—now it was too late to change.
Dana had been raised with manners. She’d never barge into Jake and Lizzie’s home unannounced—she’d knock or even call first.
Lizzie had no such restraint. She’d storm into Mike and Dana’s house without warning, indifferent to what they were doing—even when their son was small, napping or feeding.
“Oops, Dana, you’re putting him down? Fine, I’ll come back,” Lizzie would say—but by then, the boy was startled awake.
“Mike,” Dana would complain, “it’s like she does it on purpose. We’d never barge in like that.”
Mike agreed—but what could he do?
Weekends were worst. Dana rose early, savouring quiet mornings with coffee by the window, her boys still asleep. She’d cook breakfast—omelettes, porridge—for them.
Then Lizzie’s face would appear at the window.
“Oh, you’re up! Pour me one, I’ll be right in!”—and she’d barrel through the door, Mike and their son still sleeping. “Ooh, you’ve made breakfast! I’ll join you!”
Dana loathed these moments. She hadn’t cooked for Lizzie. But she’d never turn her away—though sometimes she’d make excuses.
“What, can’t spare a forkful?” Lizzie would snipe, sulking all day if refused, making the yard awkward.
Lizzie was ruled by her moods. “If I wake up happy, I’m golden. If not—watch out.”
“Nice brag,” Jake would dryly remark, but one glare silenced him.
Once, Dana overheard them talking as she swept outside.
“Lizzie, stay out of Mike’s business. How’d you like it if they did that to you?” Jake said.
Dana didn’t wait for Lizzie’s reply. She hurried inside, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.
“Why does Jake get it, but Lizzie doesn’t?” she wondered, respecting Jake even more.
One evening, Dana and Mike ordered sushi—a treat for their son’s straight-A report card.
As the delivery arrived, Lizzie spotted it from her house.
“Sushi! Why didn’t you tell us? We’d have joined you!” she shrieked, hurling insults as the brothers rushed out.
Jake dragged Lizzie inside, her screams fading. Mike led Dana in. The evening was ruined.
“Why must I report every move to Lizzie?” Dana cried. “Can’t we have one quiet meal? She’s suffocating.”
Mike soothed her as best he could. Dana knew it wasn’t his fault. Or Jake’s.
“I’m glad if she never speaks to me again,” she admitted. “She’s everywhere. Jake’s barely there, but Lizzie…”
Sharing the story with her colleagues had helped, but Dana hadn’t slept well.
“There you have it,” she sighed. “Lizzie ruined everything, swore at me, and promised to make life hell. And all I want is peace.”
“Bloody hell, Dana,” Olivia gasped. “I’d have kicked her out years ago. You even feed her breakfast! Just cut her off.”
“Easy for you to say,” Dana murmured.
But she’d made up her mind. Next time, she’d stand her ground—manners be damned.
