**Too Much Love**
I woke to the smell of frying onions and a strange clattering. The room was dark, but beyond the wall, pots banged and something bubbled.
“Six in the morning? Seriously?” I muttered, pulling on my dressing gown.
In the kitchen, wearing a red apron that read *Queen of the Kitchen*, stood my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore. She flipped sausages in a large pan while humming *Rule, Britannia!* at full volume.
“Good morning, Emily dear!” she chirped without turning. “Thought I’d treat everyone to a proper fry-up! Homemade, just how James likes it!”
“James is asleep,” I managed a weak smile. “So was I. It’s Saturday.”
“Oh, come now! The early bird catches the worm! I’ve been up since five—quick shower, a jog round the garden, you know how good it is for you! Then I thought, why not feed the lot of you?”
I poured myself coffee. Before the first sip, my own mother, Helen Dawson, burst in wearing workout leggings, a yoga mat tucked under her arm.
“Em, love, don’t forget! Pilates today!”
“Helen,” Margaret smiled thinly, “back so soon?”
“Just popped out for fresh herbs and found a new yoga studio!” Helen said brightly. “By the way, marg, sausages at dawn? Bit heavy, don’t you think? All that grease.”
“Taste before you judge,” Margaret shot back. “These are lean turkey. James has loved them since he was a boy—I made them every weekend!”
“Em doesn’t eat fried food!” Helen snapped. “Delicate stomach—I raised her on steamed veg!”
I buried my face in my hands.
Domestic purgatory.
Round two came at bath time.
“Why’s my loofah on the floor?” Margaret shrieked from the bathroom.
“Maybe because yours knocked everything else down?” Helen fired back.
“Me? I’m tidy! Your potions take up the whole sink!”
“Those are herbal toners!”
“They’re clutter, Helen. Clutter!”
I gave up on work and closed my laptop.
“James,” I whispered. “We need to talk.”
“Not now—tournament final,” he muttered, eyes glued to the screen.
“James,” I stood up, “either we talk, or I move into the shed.”
He paused the game with a sigh. “What?”
“There are two women in this house, and both think they own the kitchen, the bathroom, and you.”
“It’s temporary—”
“It’s week three,” I hissed. “I’ve stopped drinking coffee to avoid the morning wars. I can’t use the loo without battling face creams. Yesterday, your mum rearranged my books by height. Mine cancelled our Netflix for *Dancing on Ice*.”
“But they mean well—”
“Right,” I stood. “Tomorrow, they’ll burn each other at the stake using my favourite novels as kindling.”
Next morning, the Great Breakfast Battle commenced.
Margaret started her “legendary roast beef.” Helen countered with her trump card—”salt-free, fat-free lentil stew.” Both women began chopping in sync.
“James always eats my roast!” Margaret declared. “With proper Yorkshire puddings!”
“You trained him wrong!” Helen snapped. “At his age, health matters more than taste!”
“A mother’s love beats your fad diets!”
“Diets? It’s called *living past sixty*!”
I snapped. “Enough! I don’t eat beef *or* flavourless mush! Where’s my cereal?”
“Bin,” they chorused. “Processed rubbish.”
“What?!”
I grabbed my coat. Outside, drizzle pattered the pavement. I slapped my leg for Bailey the spaniel and walked blindly.
An hour later, James caught up on his bike, umbrella and thermos in hand.
“I get it,” he said. “This is too much.”
“You think?” I kept walking.
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Don’t talk. Fix it.”
That evening, I called a “family meeting.” Around the table sat all four of us.
“Dear mums,” I began, “we love you. But living together is like housing a lion and a panther in one zoo.”
“Who’s the panther?” Margaret bristled.
“Clearly, I’m the lion,” Helen retorted.
“Stop!” James raised his hands. “Solution: the garden cottage. But it’s one space. So—rotations.”
“What?” Both women narrowed their eyes.
“One week in the house, one in the cottage. Switching.”
“I need a proper kitchen!” Margaret cried.
“It’s got a hob,” James said.
“I need baths with Epsom salts!” Helen cut in.
“It’s got a shower and aromatherapy oils,” I added. “We’ll get a diffuser.”
“No!” they shouted in unison.
“Then you both leave. Permanently.”
“Blackmail!” Margaret gasped.
“Freedom,” I said.
Next morning, the house smelled of coffee. Solo. No fry-up.
I stepped onto the patio. Both mums sat wrapped in blankets, sipping tea.
“We’ll rotate,” Margaret said stiffly.
“But I’m first in the house,” Helen added.
“Why you?” Margaret tensed.
“Seniority!”
“That’s—”
“MUM.” I raised a hand. “Share, or I rent a flat. Alone. With Bailey. And my yoga mat.”
Silence.
Then—laughter. Both of them.
“Fine, Marg,” Helen sighed. “First week’s yours.”
“Ta, Helen. That’s… decent of you.”
“And I still won’t eat your beef. But it smells alright.”
“Maybe I’ll teach you my gravy trick?”
“You teach me that flourless lemon cake?”
I sat between them, eyes closed. Peace. Just coffee and quiet.
A week later, the truce held… until Saturday.
I savoured my first proper lie-in—no frying smells, no 7 a.m. vacuum lectures, no debates on “how you married a man who can’t make soup.” James snored beside me, hugging a pillow. Bailey didn’t bark. Perfection.
Then—the doorbell.
I shuffled to the door in my robe—and froze.
James’s grandmother stood there, suitcase in hand.
“Hello, Em love! Came to visit the family. Grandson, future great-grandbabies… you know.”
“Great-grandbabies?” I blinked. “We don’t have kids.”
“Oh, just planning ahead!” She bustled past. “Where are my girls?”
*Girls?* I thought. *Oh no…*
Margaret waltzed in from the kitchen, beaming. “Mum! You’re here!”
Helen appeared from the cottage, hair in curlers. “Who’s shouting at this hour? Oh. Nana Agnes. Hello.”
“You’re still here?” Agnes eyed Helen. “Thought you’d be at the seaside.”
“And I thought you were in Bournemouth,” Helen smiled sweetly.
“Now there’s three,” I muttered, brewing coffee. “Three women, three gravy recipes, three universes of opinion.”
Agnes was the opposite of both mums—no-nonsense, thrifty, with humour drier than her oatcakes. She emptied the fridge of “fancy salads,” claimed the TV chair, and tuned in to *Pointless* with a crossword in hand.
“Keeps the mind sharp,” she said proudly.
“You could try a smartphone,” Helen muttered.
“Phones don’t converse,” Agnes sniffed. “And you could scrub that pan properly.”
I pretended to work, music blasting through headphones. Still, I heard it all. Three. One house. All in charge.
Lunch: Agnes’s “liver-saving” broth (no potatoes), Margaret’s roast “for James’s energy,” Helen’s quinoa salad with a side of “just-in-case antacids.” James took one look and fled.
“He’s cracking too,” I thought. “Save this marriage before we’re whispering through the fridge.”
That night, I suggested board games.
Grudgingly, they agreed. Over tea and Victoria sponge, we played *Dixit*.
“What’s this nonsense?” Agnes scowled at the dreamlike cards. “Where’s the sense?”
“You give clues,” I explained. “Others guess your card.”
“Fine. ‘Loneliness.’” She slapped down a lone crow on a bridge.
“Good lord, morbid,” Margaret sighed.
“My turn—‘my youth,’” Helen played a beach scene.
“Your youth was in Brighton?”
“Better than yours in a bread queue!”
“Ladies,” I cut in. “It’s a game, not a duel.”
“Duel?” Agnes perked up. “Let’s have a proper cook-off!”
“What?”
“You three cook. Me, Em, and James judge. Winner gets… these.” She unveiled fuzzy slippers embroidered *Head of House*.
“*Slippers* are the”And so, as Bailey dozed by the fire, the women bickered over recipes, James hid behind his newspaper, and I sipped my tea, realizing that sometimes, love means learning to share the chaos—and the last biscuit.”
