**Too Much Care**
Charlotte woke to the smell of fried onions and an odd clatter. The room was dark, but pots clanged beyond the wall, something bubbling away.
“Six in the morning, really?” she muttered, tugging on her dressing gown.
In the kitchen, wearing an apron that read *Queen of the Kitchen*, stood her mother-in-law, Margaret. She deftly flipped cutlets in a vast pan, humming *Rule, Britannia* off-key.
“Good morning, darling!” she trilled without turning. “Thought I’d treat everyone to proper cutlets! Homemade! No breadcrumbs, just as Edward likes!”
“Edward’s asleep,” Charlotte forced a smile. “And so was I. It’s Saturday.”
“Nonsense, love! Early to bed and early to rise! I’ve been up since five—quick shower, a jog round the garden, you know, keeps the blood moving. Then I thought, might as well feed the lot of you!”
Charlotte poured herself coffee. Before the first sip, her own mother, Beatrice, barged in—clad in yoga leggings, a mat tucked under her arm.
“Charlotte, love! Don’t forget—Pilates today!”
“Beatrice,” Margaret smiled thinly. “Back so soon?”
“Oh yes!” Beatrice chirped. “Popped to the farmer’s market for fresh herbs and found a yoga studio! By the way, Margie, fried food for breakfast? Bit heavy, isn’t it?”
“You’d know if you tasted them,” Margaret stepped forward. “Pure chicken breast, no grease. Edward’s adored them since he was knee-high—made them every Saturday.”
“And Charlotte *doesn’t* eat fried food,” Beatrice snapped. “Delicate stomach. Steamed meals only, since she was little.”
Charlotte buried her face in her hands.
This was purgatory. Domestic purgatory.
By evening, Round Two erupted.
“Why is my sponge on the *floor*?” Margaret shrieked from the bathroom.
“Perhaps because yours knocked the others down?” Beatrice shot back.
“*My* things are tidy! It’s your potions everywhere—can’t even open the loo without tripping over your *miracle tonics*!”
“They’re *herbal* tonics!”
“They’re *clutter*, Beatrice!”
Charlotte shut her laptop. Work was impossible.
“Edward,” she whispered. “We need to talk.”
“Not now,” he waved her off. “Tournament finals.”
“Edward,” she stood. “Either we talk, or I move to the shed.”
He paused his game and sighed. “What?”
“Two women live here. Both think it’s *their* kitchen, *their* bathroom, *their* you.”
“It’s temporary—”
“It’s been *three weeks*,” she hissed. “I’ve stopped morning coffee because the kitchen’s a warzone. The loo’s a pharmacy. Yesterday, your mother *alphabetised* my books. Mine cancelled our Netflix for *Dancing on Ice*.”
“But they mean well—”
“Right,” Charlotte stood. “Tomorrow, they’ll burn each other at the stake using my first editions.”
The next morning, the Great Battle commenced.
Margaret announced her “signature beef stew.” Beatrice counterattacked with “salt-free lentil broth.” Both began chopping carrots in militant silence.
“Edward *adores* my stew,” Margaret declared. “With crusty bread!”
“Because you *trained* him to!” Beatrice retorted. “A grown man shouldn’t eat like a coal miner!”
Charlotte snapped.
“Enough! *I* don’t eat stew *or* gruel! Where’s my cereal?”
“Bin,” they chorused. “Full of sugar.”
“What—?”
Charlotte walked out. Drizzle freckled the pavement. She slapped the spaniel off her feet and wandered aimlessly.
An hour later, Edward cycled up, umbrella in one hand, thermos in the other.
“I get it,” he said. “This is too much.”
“You *think*?” She wouldn’t look at him.
“I’ll talk to them.”
“Don’t talk. *Fix* it.”
That evening, Charlotte called a “family meeting.” All four sat stiffly at the table.
“Dear mothers,” she began. “We love you. But living together is like housing a lion and a leopard in one cage.”
“Who’s the *leopard*?” Margaret bristled.
“Clearly, *I’m* the lion,” Beatrice sniffed.
“Stop!” Edward raised his hands. “We’ve a solution. The guest cottage. But it’s one cottage. So… rotation.”
“What?” Both women narrowed their eyes.
“Alternate weeks. One here, one there.”
“But the *kitchen*—” Margaret protested.
“There’s a stove,” said Edward.
“And I need my *Epsom baths*,” Beatrice cut in.
“There’s a shower,” Charlotte said calmly. “We’ll get diffusers.”
They refused in unison.
“Then you both leave. Permanently.”
“This is blackmail!” Margaret gasped.
“This is freedom,” Charlotte said.
Next morning, the house smelled only of coffee. Single brewed. No cutlets.
Charlotte stepped onto the patio. Both mothers sat wrapped in tartan blankets, teacups in hand.
“We’ll rotate,” Margaret said grudgingly.
“But *I’m* first in the house,” Beatrice added.
“Why *you*?” Margaret stiffened.
“Seniority!”
Charlotte raised a hand. “Split the weeks, or I’m renting a flat. Alone. With the dog. And my yoga mat.”
Silence.
Then laughter—both of them.
“Fine, Margie,” Beatrice sighed. “You first.”
“Thank you.” Margaret softened. “Your lentil broth… it *does* smell… tolerable.”
“And your stew’s not *entirely* a heart attack.”
Charlotte sat, eyes closed. Peace. Quiet. Just coffee.
A week passed.
The truce held… until Saturday.
Charlotte savoured her first proper night’s rest—no frying at dawn, no vacuuming at seven, no lectures on vitamins or “how could you marry a man who can’t boil an egg?” Edward snored beside her, hugging a pillow like a child. No barking spaniels. Perfection.
Then—the doorbell.
Barefoot, Charlotte opened the door… and froze.
Edward’s grandmother stood there, suitcase in hand.
“Hello, darling! Came to visit the family. Grandson, great-grandchildren… you know.”
“Great-grandchildren?” Charlotte blinked. “We don’t *have* children.”
“Oh, just planning ahead!” Gran bustled in. “Where are my girls?”
*Girls?* Charlotte’s stomach dropped. *Oh no.*
Margaret swept in, beaming. “Mum! You’re here!”
Beatrice emerged from the cottage, hair wrapped in a silk scarf. “Who’s shouting at this hour? Oh—Gran! Lovely to see you.”
“You’re *still* here?” Gran eyed Beatrice. “Thought you’d be off to Cornwall.”
“And I thought *you* were in Bournemouth,” Beatrice smiled sweetly.
“Now there’s three of them,” Charlotte muttered, brewing coffee. “Three women, three stew recipes, three universes of opinion.”
Gran was the antithesis of both mothers—practical, frugal, with humour drier than her oatcakes. She reorganised the fridge (“*Quinoa? Waste of cupboard space*”), claimed the telly for *Countdown*, and scribbled in a notebook.
“Vocabulary,” she declared. “Keeps the mind sharp.”
“You could just use a phone,” Beatrice muttered.
“Phones don’t converse,” Gran said. “And you could wash that pan properly.”
Charlotte pretended to work, music blasting through headphones—yet she heard every word. Three. In one house. All certain *they* knew best.
Lunch was Gran’s potato-less soup (“*Starch rots the liver*”), Margaret’s roast (“*Growing lad needs meat*”), and Beatrice’s kale salad (“*Detox after that *toxin* fest*”). Edward took one look and fled.
“*He* can’t take it either,” Charlotte realised. “We’ll be whispering through the fridge next.”
That evening, she proposed neutral ground: board games.
They grudgingly agreed. Tea was poured, apple crumble served, *Articulate!* unpacked.
“What nonsense is this?” Gran scowled at the cards.
“You describe a word; others guess,” Charlotte explained.
“Right. *Loneliness*.” Gran slapped down a card—a lone crow on a fence.
“Good Lord, cheery,” Margaret sighed.
“*My youth*,” Beatrice played a beach at sunset.
“Your youth was *Brighton*?”
“Better than *yours* in some Midlands queue!”
“*This* is a game, not a duel,” Charlotte cut in.
“Duel…” Gran’s eyes lit up. “Let’s have a *proper* contest.Gran clapped her hands. “A baking showdown—best Victoria sponge takes the crown!”
