Too Much Care
Emily woke to the scent of frying onions and an odd clatter. The room was dark, but beyond the wall, pots banged and something bubbled aggressively.
“Six in the morning, really?” she muttered, dragging on her dressing gown.
In the kitchen, wearing a red apron that read “Queen of the Kitchen,” stood her mother-in-law—Margaret. She expertly flipped meat patties in a vast pan, belting out “Rule, Britannia!” with alarming volume.
“Good morning, love!” she chirped, not turning around. “Thought I’d treat everyone to proper homemade patties! No breadcrumbs, just how Oliver likes them!”
“Oliver’s asleep,” Emily attempted a smile. “So was I. It’s Saturday.”
“Oh, nonsense! Early bird catches the worm, dear! I’ve been up since five—quick shower, jogged round the garden, you know, keeps the blood moving. Then I thought, why not feed the troops?”
Emily slowly poured herself coffee. By the time she took her first sip, her own mother—Patricia—burst in, clad in yoga leggings with a rolled-up mat under her arm.
“Em, morning! You didn’t forget? Pilates today!”
“Patricia,” Margaret smiled thinly. “Back already?”
“Yep!” Patricia beamed. “Just nipped out for fresh herbs and stumbled upon a yoga studio! Also, Marg, frying patties at dawn? Do you know the cholesterol in those?”
“Try one before you criticize,” Margaret stepped forward. “Pure lean mince. Oliver’s adored them since he was knee-high—I made them every Saturday.”
“Emily doesn’t eat fried food!” Patricia snapped. “Delicate stomach. Steamed veg only, her entire childhood.”
Emily buried her face in her hands.
This was purgatory. Domestic purgatory.
That evening, round two erupted in the bathroom.
“Why is my loofah on the floor?” Margaret shrieked.
“Probably because yours bulldozed the rest off the rack?” Patricia shot back.
“Me? I’m tidy! It’s your potions everywhere! Can’t even open the cabinet without a vial attack!”
“That’s organic rosewater!”
“That’s clutter, Patricia. Clutter!”
Emily snapped her laptop shut. Work was impossible.
“Oliver,” she whispered. “We need to talk.”
“Not now,” he waved her off. “Tournament finals.”
“Oliver.” She stood. “Either we talk, or I move into the shed.”
He paused his controller and sighed. “What?”
“There are two women in this house, both convinced it’s their kitchen, their bathroom, and their you.”
“It’s temporary—”
“It’s been three weeks,” Emily hissed. “I’ve stopped drinking coffee because the kitchen’s a warzone. I can’t pee without navigating a skincare minefield. Yesterday, your mum alphabetized my books. Mine cancelled Netflix for ‘Strictly.’”
“But they mean well—”
“Right,” Emily stood. “Tomorrow they’ll burn each other at the stake using my vintage paperbacks as kindling.”
The next morning, the Great Bake-Off commenced.
Margaret announced her “legendary beef stew.” Patricia countered with a “salt-free detox broth.” Both began chopping carrots in militant sync.
“Oliver’s always loved my stew,” Margaret declared. “With crusty bread!”
“Because you conditioned him!” Patricia retorted. “At 35, he should eat like an adult. Health over nostalgia!”
“A mother’s love trumps your quinoa propaganda!”
“Propaganda? Your stew’s a heart attack waiting to happen!”
Emily snapped:
“Enough! I have preferences too, and I hate both stew and salty broth. Where’s my cereal?”
“Bin,” they chorused. “Processed rubbish.”
“What?”
Emily stormed out. Drizzle misted the air. She slapped the spaniel aside and walked blindly.
An hour later, Oliver pedalled up, umbrella in one hand, coffee thermos in the other.
“I get it,” he said. “This is mad.”
“You think?” She didn’t look at him.
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Don’t talk. Fix.”
That evening, Emily called a summit. All four sat at the table.
“Beloved mothers,” she began. “We adore you. But living together is like locking a lion and a tiger in one cage.”
“Who’s the tiger?” Margaret scowled.
“Clearly, I’m the lion,” Patricia sniffed.
“Stop!” Oliver raised his hands. “Solution: We’ve a garden flat. But it’s one flat. So… rotation.”
“What?” Both women narrowed their eyes.
“Each stays there alternate weeks. One here, one away.”
“But I need a proper oven!” Margaret cried.
“It has one,” said Oliver.
“I need my bath salts!” Patricia cut in.
“It’s got a shower. We’ll buy diffusers,” Emily said.
“Unacceptable!” they exploded in unison.
“Then you both leave. Permanently.”
“Blackmail!” Margaret hissed.
“Liberation,” Emily replied.
Next morning, the house smelled only of coffee. Single-filter. No fry-up.
Emily stepped onto the patio. Both mothers sat wrapped in blankets, sipping tea.
“We’ll rotate,” Margaret said.
“But I’m first in the house next,” Patricia added.
“Why you?” Margaret bristled.
“Seniority!”
“Seniority? You—”
“MUM.” Emily lifted a hand. “Rotate or I rent a flat. Alone. With the dog. And my yoga mat.”
Silence.
Then laughter—from both.
“Fine, Marg,” Patricia sighed. “You first.”
“Ta, love. That’s… decent of you.”
“Still won’t eat your stew, though.”
“But it smells grand, doesn’t it?”
Emily sat between them, eyes closed. Quiet. Peace. And coffee.
A week passed.
The truce held… until Saturday.
Emily savoured her first truly silent night. No frying stench, no vacuuming at dawn, no lectures on “how could you marry a man who can’t roast a chicken?” Oliver snored softly, hugging a pillow. No spaniel barks. Perfection.
Then the doorbell rang.
Emily opened the door—and froze.
Oliver’s grandmother stood there, suitcase in tow.
“Hello, pet! Just popped by to see the family. Grandson, future great-grandbabies… youknowhowitis.”
“Great-grandbabies?” Emily blinked. “We don’t have children.”
“Oh, I’m just… manifesting!” Granny bustled in. “Where’s my girls?”
Girls? Emily’s stomach dropped. Oh no…
Margaret zoomed in, radiant: “Mum! You’re here!”
Patricia emerged from the flat, hair in a turban: “Who’s shrieking at—? Oh. Gran. Hello.”
“You still here?” Granny eyed Patricia. “Thought you’d be off to your retreat.”
“And I thought you were in Bournemouth,” Patricia smiled sweetly.
“Three of them,” Emily muttered, brewing coffee. “Three women. Three stew recipes. Three universes of opinion.”
Granny was the anti-Margaret-and-Patricia. Austere, thrifty, with a sense of humour drier than her oatcakes, she reorganised the fridge, purged “faddish hummus,” and commandeered the telly for “Countdown,” pencil poised over a crossword.
“Brain exercise,” she declared.
“You could just use a tablet,” Patricia muttered.
“Tablets rot minds. Unlike your undercooked quiche.”
Emily pretended to work, music blasting—yet she heard everything. Three. One house. All battling for command.
Lunch: Granny served “bone broth”—”Great for the joints.” Margaret roasted a leg of lamb—”Growing boys need protein.” Patricia presented a courgette spiral salad and a first-aid kit—”In case of food poisoning.”
Oliver peeked in, paled, and retreated without a word.
“He’s cracking too,” Emily thought. “Must save us before we start whispering through the fridge.”
That night, she proposed neutral ground: board games.
Granny squinted at the cards. “What’s this nonsense?”
“It’s ‘Dixit.’ You give a clue for your card. Others guess which it is,” Emily explained.
“Right. ‘Loneliness.’” Granny slapped down a card of a lone crow on a wire.
“Christ, bleak,” Margaret muttered.
“My turn: ‘My youth,’” Patricia played a beach sunset.
“Your youth was in Ibiza?”
“Yours in a Wimpy queue?”
“Ladies,” Emily cut in. “It’s a game, not Gladiators.”
“Gladiators…” Granny’s eyes lit up. “Let’s do a proper cook-off!”
“What?”
“You three cook. Me, Em, and Ollie judge. Winner gets… these.” She brandished fluffy slippers. “Throne of the home.”
Emily blinked.And as Emily slipped the winning slippers onto her own feet that night, she realized the true secret to peace wasn’t winning the battle—but letting everyone else think they had.
