Three Women, One Kitchen, and Not a Drop of Peace
“Right. Monday’s mine. Tuesday’s Mum. Wednesday’s Zenaida Arkadyevna. Thursday’s me again,” Lena neatly divided the lined paper. “Weekends—we’ll see.”
“Perfect,” nodded her mother, Marina Nikolayevna, hiding a smug smile. “Order at last.”
“Mm-hmm, till the first borscht,” grumbled her mother-in-law, Zenaida Arkadyevna. “You girls are only good on paper.”
Lena ignored her. She was exhausted. Six months under one roof with two mothers wasn’t life—it was a soap opera. With no pause button.
It started after Varya was born. Marina Nikolayevna had come “for a couple of months to help.” Zenaida Arkadyevna had never left—she’d lived with them from the start. “Where else would I go? My son’s married now,” was her catchphrase.
The flat was a three-bed, but felt like a dollhouse. No space to breathe, let alone for three women.
“Who put the empty pickle jar back in the fridge?” Zenaida shrieked at 10 a.m.
“Me!” Marina called from the balcony. “There’s brine left! For soup!”
“Oh, aren’t we the domestic goddess,” sneered Zenaida. “But *I* make soup on Wednesdays. Today’s Tuesday. *My* day!”
“I just wanted to help,” Marina huffed.
“I didn’t ask!”
“But *I* did.” Lena settled Varya in her playpen. “Mum, stick to the schedule. Or we’ll have three soups in one day again, and no one washing up.”
“At least they got eaten!” Zenaida shot back. “And *I* scrubbed the stove after. I’ve got blood pressure, you know!”
Lena’s husband, Ivor, either went for a run or slipped on headphones during these spats. “Important calls,” he’d say, but Lena knew—he was hiding. Picking sides? Impossible. Easier to vanish.
“Talk to him,” Marina whispered once he’d fled. “He should tell his mother to back off. Varya’s *my* grandchild too.”
“Mum, *you* interfere too,” Lena murmured.
“Well, someone has to! Who takes Varya out? Who bought her new boots? Who did the night washing?”
“Enough. This isn’t a competition.”
But it was. All three—Lena, her mother, her mother-in-law—vied for “head woman of the house.” And Ivor? Ivor was drowning.
One evening, the kitchen became a battleground.
“I *said* Wednesday’s my day!” Zenaida yelled. “Why’s your pot on *my* stove?”
“Because I’m busy with the baby, not your daft schedule!” Marina snapped.
“Who invited you into *our* home?”
“*Your* home? *I* paid for this kitchen while you gallivanted around Brighton!”
“Oh, Marina, always ‘I did this, I did that.’ Next you’ll say *you* birthed Varya!”
Lena stormed in as borscht—the “off-schedule” batch—boiled over onto the hob.
“STOP!” she screamed. “Pots down! Tomorrow’s soup is *patience purée*!”
Both mothers froze.
“I’m not a pawn between you. I’m a *person*! A woman with hormones, sore breasts, a sleepless child, and *zero* desire to cook!” Her voice cracked. “Enough!”
She slammed the bathroom door. Silence. And in it, realization: neither woman was to blame. They just didn’t know how to let go.
The next day, she declared: laundry. Shared. If socks vanished and towels merged, they’d sort it—like adults.
“Good!” Marina approved. “I’ve lost three dressing gowns.”
“My sheets are gone!” Zenaida added.
They strung a line in the kitchen, pegs allotted. Lena mopped; Varya napped; the mothers sat on stools, staring at hanging babygrows, silent.
“Honestly,” Marina finally said, “why am I even here? My daughter’s grown. Why meddle?”
“To not be alone,” Zenaida murmured. “Retirement’s just… waiting. With family, you feel alive. Needed.”
Marina nodded. A pause.
“I raised three *alone*. Now… it’s like a second chance. To do it *right*.”
“My ‘right’ is schedules. Or there’s chaos.”
“Maybe… Lena can manage?” Marina ventured. “This isn’t a race?”
Lena stepped out to find them side by side. No bickering. No borscht.
She kissed Varya’s head and said, “We’re moving. A little two-bed. Quiet. Just us.”
“*Alone*?” Marina panicked.
“We’ll stay local. But… it’s time.”
“And… Varya?”
“You’ll visit. On *your* days.” Lena smiled. “No cooking.”
———
A month later, Lena woke to silence. No arguing. No soup smells.
Ivor munched toast in the kitchen. “How’s the peace?”
“Strange. Good.” She grinned. “I feel like the *only* woman of the house.”
He nodded. “Can I cook tonight?”
“Sure. But you’re on Thursdays.”
They laughed.
———
A year on, Lena sipped coffee by the window. Varya stacked blocks; Ivor read a fairy tale, mostly to himself. Sunday—a rare day with nowhere to be. The quiet hummed like music.
Then the doorbell.
Lena didn’t flinch. She knew.
“Hi, Mum.” She smiled at Marina Nikolayevna, crisp in her tweed coat, tote bag in hand.
“Darling! Oh, my princess!” Marina scooped up Varya. “Look how you’ve grown!”
“Mum, no food. Remember?” Lena eyed the bag.
“Just essentials! Nuts, cough tincture—in case—”
“There’s a chemist *below* us.”
“Nuts aren’t *food*,” Marina winked. “And no borscht! Promise!”
Lena rolled her eyes but let it slide.
———
Next week, Zenaida arrived—with a wheeled suitcase.
“My knee’s playing up,” she sighed, toeing off her shoes. “Staying four days.”
“Two,” Lena said automatically.
“Three?”
“Fine. But no fridge audits.”
“Why would I? Brought my own.” Zenaida patted the suitcase. “Cutlets, steamed fish, broth in a flask. You’re on that *fad diet*…”
Ivor peeked out, winked, and vanished. Lena sighed, then organized “edible borders”: Grandma’s stash (top shelf), theirs (middle), Varya’s (labeled boxes).
On day three, Zenaida raided the freezer.
“Chicken here. You know?”
“*Our* dinner. Ivor’s recipe.”
“Hmph. I’d do it *my* way—you *know* how I—”
“I know how to say *no*,” Lena smiled.
“You’re steel, like my mother-in-law… but she had no humor.”
“I do. So—tea?”
“Fine. None of those *fancy* root teas, mind.”
———
A month later, both grandmothers arrived—unannounced.
“*I* booked Saturday!” Marina unzipped her puffer. “Made carrot cake. *Healthy*.”
“I *called* last week!” Zenaida snapped. “My *hernia*—I don’t travel weekdays!”
“Now we’re booking by *ailments*?”
“Pain trumps pastry.”
“*Right*.” Lena appeared with Varya. “If you can’t share, *both* leave.”
“*What*?” they gasped.
“Home. Or Zoom calls with Varya.”
“Zoom’s *inhuman*!”
“Then *be* human. *Compete*.”
Silence. The Zoom threat loomed.
“Fine,” Zenaida conceded. “We’ll share the kitchen tonight. Sleeping bags.”
“Taking turns?”
“*No*. I won’t listen to you snore!”
“Or you *talking* in your sleep!”
“*Lounge*. Mattresses. Like *camp*.”
“Only if Lena lends blankets.”
“*One*,” said Lena. “Share.”
By morning, they looked weary—but softer.
“You *don’t* need borscht,” Zenaida mused. “That lentil soup—*quite* good.”
“Your ironing’s neat,” Marina admitted.
“We thought…” Zenaida hesitated. “Maybe we’ll flat-share?”
“*Together*?”
“Why not? Visit you weekly,Lena grinned, pouring tea for them all, and realized—sometimes the sweetest peace comes from letting love find its own messy, perfect way.
