**Waiting for Peace, Getting Chaos**
“Mum, I *told* you—just us, as a family!” Margaret turned away from the stove, gripping a wooden spoon, her voice trembling between irritation and forced calm.
Emily, hunched over the kitchen table, scrolled through her phone with barely a glance upwards. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun, and her expression was pure teenage exasperation.
“Oh, come on, Mum, don’t start,” she huffed, fingers still tapping. “It’s your *fiftieth*! We can’t just sip tea and call it a day. I’ve already invited everyone.”
“Who—*everyone*?” Margaret froze, the spoon wavering in her hand. “Emily, I *said*: you, James, the kids. Maybe Auntie Betty. Who else?”
Emily finally looked up, rolling her eyes.
“*Everyone*, Mum! Auntie Betty and Uncle Nigel, their son and his wife, Gran, my friends and their husbands, a couple of neighbours. Oh, and a few of your old colleagues from the school. They practically invited themselves when they heard.”
Margaret felt her pulse thud in her temples. She set the spoon down slowly, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Emily, are you *serious*? I asked for *one* quiet day. *One!* And you’ve turned it into a blasted wedding reception!”
“Mum, don’t be dramatic,” Emily stood, adjusting her jeans. “People just want to celebrate you. You can’t *kick them out*, can you? Relax, I’ll handle it. Just bake your famous Victoria sponge, yeah? I’ll sort the rest.”
Margaret opened her mouth to argue, but Emily was already out the door, tossing over her shoulder:
“And *stop grumbling*. It’s *your* party!”
The door slammed. Margaret was alone. She stared at the bubbling pot of soup, the mountain of dishes in the sink, and felt something tighten inside. Fifty years. She’d dreamed of a quiet evening—soft lighting, cosy chatter, her daughter and grandkids flipping through old photo albums. Instead? A mob, noise, and *her* cleaning up after them.
—
Margaret adored her home. A snug two-bed terrace in East London, where she’d raised Emily, weathered her divorce, and learned to stand on her own two feet. The kitchen was her pride—gingham curtains, a scrubbed oak table, the shelf of antique teacups she’d collected for years. Every birthday, she baked the same cake: vanilla sponge, fresh berries, perfectly whipped cream. Her little ritual.
But this year? Chaos.
Emily had announced the “Big Fiftieth Bash” two weeks prior. Margaret had tried to protest, but Emily—stubborn as her mother but without an ounce of patience—wouldn’t budge. “Mum, you *deserve* a proper party! Stop hiding away!” So Margaret, as usual, gave in.
Now, the night before the dreaded event, her kitchen was a war zone. Emily had hauled in crates of wine, snack platters, and a monstrous bouquet that swallowed half the counter. Margaret kneaded cake batter, ignoring the clatter of uninvited guests-to-be.
“Mum? *Mum!*” Emily burst in with two giggling friends in tow. “Oh, smells amazing! Is that the cake?”
“Yes,” Margaret muttered, not turning. “Don’t touch it. Not done.”
Her daughter’s mates—Sophie and Jess—plonked themselves at the table. Sophie, glossy-lipped and nosy, reached for the bowl of cream.
“Margaret, can I try? Your cream’s *legendary*.”
“Best not,” Margaret forced a smile. “Still needs work.”
“Oh, go on,” Sophie scooped a fingerful and licked it. “*God*, that’s divine! Em, your mum’s a genius!”
Margaret clenched her jaw. Emily, oblivious, chattered away as they demolished the cream. When they finally left, Margaret eyed the empty bowl, blinked hard, and started over.
—
The morning of the party was bedlam. Margaret woke at dawn to finish the cake and prep salads. By nine, the house was mayhem—Emily draping bunting, her husband James wrestling with a wobbly fold-out table.
“Marg, where’s the good tablecloth?” James called, rummaging through a cupboard.
“Top drawer in the bedroom,” she replied, slicing cucumbers. “And *be careful*. It was Gran’s.”
“Right, got it,” he muttered. Then—*rip*.
Margaret spun around. James stood sheepishly, the lace tablecloth torn clean in two.
“Er… sorry? Caught on a nail.”
Margaret inhaled sharply. “*Fine*. Use the green one.”
She turned back to the chopping board, jaw tight. That wasn’t *just* a tablecloth. Gran had hand-stitched it. But today was *her* day. No fights.
By noon, the crowd arrived. Auntie Betty brought a towering supermarket cake that immediately upstaged Margaret’s. Gran demanded a cushion (“This chair’s *murder* on my hips!”). Former colleagues—three loud, nostalgia-drunk women—monopolised the conversation. And the kids? Little tornadoes, knocking over everything in sight.
“Margaret! Where’s the *tea*?” Auntie Betty bellowed from the kitchen. “And the sausage rolls?”
“In the oven,” Margaret answered, wiping sweat from her brow. “Kettle’s on the hob.”
“Oh, is *this* your cake?” Betty poked Margaret’s masterpiece. “Lovely, but ours is *proper*—fondant, from Waitrose!”
Margaret smiled through gritted teeth. “Yours is *gorgeous*. I’ll bring things out shortly.”
The kitchen became Grand Central. Guests swarmed, plates vanished, demands flew. Margaret darted between oven and sink while Emily, the self-crowned party planner, preened in the lounge. “Yeah, *I* sorted everything—Mum needed a break!”
Margaret’s hands shook as she scrubbed another dish.
—
By three, the house was a zoo. Kids shrieked, music blared, wine sloshed. Margaret stood at the sink, elbow-deep in suds, when Emily swooped in.
“Mum! Come *on*—we’re doing speeches!”
“Just… finishing.”
“*Leave them!* It’s *your* day!”
Margaret let herself be dragged into the fray. Glasses clinked. “To Margaret!” Cheers erupted. She smiled, nodded, felt like an imposter.
Later, she found her cake—or what was left of it. Her grandson Ollie, five and feral, had smeared cream across the table while his sister lobbed raspberries at the dog.
“OLLIE! LUCY!” Margaret’s voice cracked.
The room hushed. The kids froze. The cake: demolished.
Someone tittered. “Ah, kids, eh?” Emily just shrugged.
“Mum, *relax*. It’s just a cake. We’ll buy another.”
“*Just a cake?*” Margaret’s vision blurred. “I stayed up *all night* baking it! And none of you even *touched* it!”
Silence. Awkward glances. Emily stepped forward.
“Mum, we didn’t mean—”
“Just *go*,” Margaret whispered. Then louder: “*All of you.* Now.”
Muttering, the herd dispersed. Emily lingered, shamefaced.
Margaret shut the door. Silence. Blessed, *beautiful* silence.
She brewed tea, fetched her photo album, and sank into the sofa. There they were—Emily’s first steps, her wedding day, the grandkids’ sticky-fingered grins. She smiled. She loved them. But love didn’t mean setting yourself on fire to keep others warm.
Emily called that evening.
“Mum… I’m sorry. I just wanted it to be special.”
“I know,” Margaret sighed. “Next time, *ask* what *I* want. Deal?”
“Deal.” A pause. “Can I come round tomorrow? Help tidy up?”
“Fine. But *I’m* not baking.”
She hung up, eyeing the wrecked kitchen. Tomorrow, she’d reset. On *her* terms.
