Too Much Love
Emily woke to the smell of fried onions and a strange clattering. The room was still dark, but behind the wall, pots were banging and something was bubbling away.
“Six in the morning, seriously?” she muttered, dragging on her dressing gown.
In the kitchen, wearing an apron that read *Queen of the Kitchen*, stood her mother-in-law—Margaret. She was expertly flipping burgers in a giant frying pan while belting out *Rule, Britannia!*
“Good morning, love!” she chirped without turning. “Thought I’d treat everyone to a proper fry-up! Homemade, just like Adrian likes—no beans, just as he prefers.”
“Adrian’s still asleep,” Emily forced a smile. “So was I. It’s Saturday.”
“Oh, nonsense, dear! Early to bed and early to rise, you know! I’ve been up since five—had my shower, took a brisk walk round the garden for a stretch. Then I thought, *why not cook for everyone?*”
Emily slowly poured herself coffee. Before she could take a sip, her own mother—Patricia—burst in, wearing yoga leggings and clutching a rolled-up mat.
“Em, darling! You didn’t forget, did you? We’re off to Pilates this morning!”
“Patricia,” Margaret said sweetly (with just a hint of venom), “back already?”
“Indeed! Took a jog round the village, found a lovely farmers’ market, *and* a new yoga studio. By the way, Marg, fried food first thing? Bit much, don’t you think? All that grease…”
“Maybe try one before criticising,” Margaret shot back, stepping forward. “Lean beef, hardly any fat. And Adrian’s adored these since he was a boy—I used to make them every Saturday.”
“*Emily* doesn’t eat fried food,” Patricia snapped. “Delicate stomach. I raised her on steamed veggies.”
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.
“Maybe because yours knocked all the others off?” Patricia retorted.
“*Me?* I’m tidy! It’s your potions taking over the sink! Can’t even open the cabinet without knocking over your *miracle serums*!”
“They’re *organic* face oils!”
“They’re clutter, Patricia. *Clutter*!”
Emily shut her laptop. Work was impossible.
“Adrian,” she whispered to her husband. “We need to talk.”
“Not now,” he waved her off. “I’m in the finals of my online tournament.”
“Adrian.” She stood. “Either we talk, or I move into the shed.”
He paused his game and sighed. “What about?”
“About the fact there are two women in our home, both convinced this is *their* kitchen, *their* bathroom, and *their* son.”
“It’s temporary…”
“It’s been *three weeks*,” Emily hissed. “I’ve stopped drinking coffee because the kitchen’s a warzone. I can’t use the loo without battling anti-ageing creams. Yesterday, your mum reorganised my books by *height*. Mine cancelled our Netflix to binge *Strictly*.”
“But they mean well—”
“Oh yes,” Emily stood. “Tomorrow, they’ll burn each other at the stake using my vintage paperbacks as kindling.”
The next morning, the Great Fry-Off began.
Margaret announced her “signature stew.” Patricia, ready for battle, countered with her trump card—”detox lentil soup.” Both women began chopping onions in militant silence.
“Adrian *loves* my stew,” Margaret declared. “With crusty bread and butter!”
“Because you trained him to!” Patricia fired back. “A grown man should eat *properly*. Health over habit!”
“A mother’s love beats your *quinoa crusade*!”
Emily snapped.
“*Enough!* I have preferences too, and right now, I’d like my cereal. Where is it?”
“We binned it,” they chorused. “Full of sugar.”
Emily stormed out. Outside, a light drizzle fell. She flung on a jacket, accidentally nudged the dog with her foot, and walked blindly.
An hour later, Adrian caught up, pedalling madly with an umbrella and a thermos.
“Alright,” he panted. “This is too much.”
“You *think*?” She didn’t look at him.
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Don’t talk. *Fix* it.”
That evening, Emily called a “family meeting.” All four sat stiffly.
“Dear mums,” she began. “We love you. But living together is like locking a bulldog and a terrier in the same crate.”
“Who’s the bulldog?” Margaret sniffed.
“Obviously *I’m* the terrier,” Patricia smirked.
“*Right*,” Adrian cut in. “Solution: We’ve got the guest cottage. But there’s one. So—rotations. A week each. One in the house, one in the cottage.”
Silence.
“I can’t cook in a *hut*!” Margaret gasped.
“It’s got a mini-oven,” Adrian said.
“I need my bath salts!” Patricia protested.
“There’s a shower and essential oils,” Emily added.
Outvoted, both grumbled but agreed. The next morning, the house smelled only of coffee. Single. No fry-up.
Emily stepped onto the patio. Both mums sat there, wrapped in blankets, sipping tea.
“We’ve decided,” Margaret said. “Rotations it is.”
“But *I’m* in the house next round,” Patricia added.
“Why *you*?” Margaret bristled.
“*Seniority*.”
Emily nearly screamed.
Two weeks later, peace reigned—until the doorbell rang at dawn.
Emily opened it—and froze.
Adrian’s *grandmother*, Doris, stood there with a suitcase.
“Hello, love! Thought I’d pop by for a visit. Grandson, great-grandchildren—you know.”
“Great-grand—*we don’t have kids*.”
“Oh, just getting ahead!” Doris marched in. “Where are my girls?”
From the kitchen, Margaret swooped in. “Mum! You’re here!”
Patricia emerged from the cottage, hair in curlers. “Who’s yelling at this hour? Oh. *Doris*.”
“You still here?” Doris eyed Patricia. “Thought you’d be off on one of your *retreats*.”
“And I thought *you* were in Bournemouth,” Patricia smiled thinly.
Emily poured coffee. *Three* women. Three opinions. Three competing soups.
Doris was a wildcard—a thrifty, no-nonsense force who declared *porridge* the pinnacle of nutrition and commandeered the telly for *Countdown*.
Lunch was chaos: Doris served saltless broth (“gravy ruins kidneys”), Margaret roasted lamb (“growing lad needs meat”), and Patricia presented a kale salad with “probiotic supplements, just in case.” Adrian took one look and fled.
That night, Emily proposed board games. Reluctantly, they agreed. Over tea and Victoria sponge, Doris scoffed at *Dixit*.
“What’s the point of these daft pictures?”
“You give a clue for your card,” Emily explained. “Others guess which is yours.”
Doris slapped down a card of a lone crow. “*Loneliness*.”
“*Charming*,” Margaret muttered.
Patricia played a beach scene. “*My youth*.”
“Your youth was *Magaluf*?”
Emily intervened. “It’s a game, not *Gogglebox*.”
Doris brightened. “Let’s settle this *properly*—a cook-off! Judges pick the winner, who gets *these*.” She unveiled fluffy slippers embroidered *Head of Household*.
And so, the battle began. Margaret made beef Wellington, Patricia a beetroot tart, and Doris—”wartime oatcakes.” The kitchen became a battlefield.
The verdict?
Doris’s oatcakes won on nostalgia. Patricia’s tart lost (the dog stole a bite). Margaret scoffed but conceded.
That night, silence. Full bellies. A fragile truce.
Emily lay in bed, pondering families—noisy, messy, but somehow warm. Even when served with oatcakes.
