Three Women, One Kitchen, and Not a Drop of Peace
“Right. Monday’s mine. Tuesday’s Mum’s. Wednesday’s Margaret’s. Thursday’s me again,” Emma neatly marked out the grid on her notepad. “And weekends—we’ll see.”
“Lovely,” nodded her mother, Caroline, hiding a smug smile. “That’ll keep things in order.”
“Sure, until the first pot of stew boils over,” muttered her mother-in-law, Margaret. “You girls are all talk and no action.”
Emma ignored her. She was exhausted. Six months under one roof with two mothers wasn’t life—it was a soap opera. Without a pause button.
It had all started after Lily was born. Caroline had arrived “for a few months to help.” Meanwhile, Margaret, her mother-in-law, had never left—she’d lived with them since the wedding. “Where else would I go now my son’s married?” was her favourite line.
The flat was a three-bed, but it felt like a dollhouse. There was barely room to breathe, let alone for three women playing house.
“Who put the empty pickle jar back in the fridge?” Margaret screeched at 10 a.m.
“Me!” Caroline called from the balcony. “The brine’s for soup!”
“Oh, aren’t we the domestic goddess,” Margaret sneered. “But I make soup on Wednesdays. Today’s Tuesday. My day!”
“I was just trying to help,” Caroline huffed.
“Nobody asked you to!”
“Well, I’m asking now,” Emma said, settling Lily in her playpen. “Mum, stick to the schedule. Or we’ll end up like last time—three stews in one day and nobody washing up.”
“So what? We ate them all!” Margaret shot back. “And I spent half an hour scrubbing the hob after you. I’ve got blood pressure, you know!”
Emma’s husband, David, either went for a run or shoved headphones in during these fights. He claimed work calls, but Emma knew the truth—he couldn’t pick a side without offending someone. Easier to disappear.
“Emma, talk to David,” Caroline whispered once he’d left the kitchen. “He should tell his mother to back off. Lily’s my grandchild too, you know.”
“Mum, you’re just as bad,” Emma muttered.
“Well, what am I supposed to do when everything’s falling apart? Who takes Lily to the park? Who bought her new boots? Who did the midnight laundry?”
“Mum, stop. This isn’t a competition.”
But it was. All three—Emma, her mum, and her mother-in-law—fought daily for the title of “woman of the house.” And David? David was just trying not to drown.
Then came the Great Kitchen Battle.
“I said Wednesday’s my day!” Margaret bellowed. “Why’s your pot on my hob?”
“Because I’m busy with the baby and can’t keep up with your ridiculous timetable!” Caroline snapped.
“Who invited you into our home in the first place?”
“Your home?! I paid for this kitchen’s refurb while you were off gallivanting in Brighton!”
“Oh, that’s your answer to everything—‘I paid, I did.’ Next you’ll claim you birthed Lily too!”
Emma stormed in just as the stew—the “off-schedule” one—boiled over, hissing onto the hob.
“Enough!” she shouted. “Both of you—pots off. Tomorrow, we’re having patience purée!”
Silence.
“I’m not some soldier caught between two fronts. I’m a person! A woman with hormones, sore breasts, a sleepless baby, and zero desire to cook anything!” Her voice cracked. “Stop!”
She locked herself in the bathroom. The quiet was a relief. And in that stillness, it hit her: neither woman was to blame. They just didn’t know how to let go.
The next day, she announced laundry day. Shared. If socks went missing and towels tangled, they’d sort it—like adults.
“Good idea,” Caroline approved. “I’ve lost track of my dressing gowns.”
“And my sheets!” Margaret added.
They strung a line across the kitchen, pegs colour-coded. Emma mopped while Lily napped. The two grandmothers sat on stools, weary, staring at hanging babygros.
“You know,” Caroline said finally, “why am I even here? Emma’s grown. Why do I meddle?”
“So you’re not alone,” Margaret said quietly. “Retirement feels like… waiting. But with grandchildren, there’s purpose. Like you’re still needed.”
Caroline nodded. A pause.
“I raised three kids alone. No help. Now it’s like… a chance to do it right.”
“And my way’s right too,” Margaret smirked. “Routine. Control. Or chaos reigns.”
“Maybe Emma can handle it herself,” Caroline ventured. “This isn’t a contest, is it?”
Emma walked in to find them side by side. No stew. No sniping.
“We’re moving,” she said, kissing Lily’s head. “A little two-bed. Quiet. Just us.”
“Completely?” Caroline paled.
“We’ll stay nearby. But it’s time.”
“What about… Lily?”
“You’ll visit. On schedule,” Emma smiled. “No cooking.”
A month later, Emma woke to silence. No clashing voices, no stew smell.
David buttered toast in the kitchen. “How’s the peace?”
“Odd. But nice.” She sipped tea. “Feels like the first time I’ve really been in charge.”
He grinned. “Can I cook tonight?”
“Sure. But Thursdays are yours now.”
They laughed.
A year on, Emma leaned by the window, coffee in hand. Lily stacked blocks as David read aloud—more to himself than to her. A rare slow Sunday.
Then the doorbell.
Emma didn’t flinch. She knew. Right on schedule.
“Hi, Mum,” she said, opening the door to Caroline, neat in her mac, tote bag in hand.
“Darling! Oh, my angel!” Caroline scooped up Lily. “Look how big you are!”
“Mum, no food. Remember?” Emma eyed the bag.
“Just essentials. Nuts, seeds, elderberry syrup—in case someone’s poorly—”
“There’s a chemist downstairs.”
“Since when are nuts ‘food’?” Caroline winked. “And no stew. Promise!”
Emma rolled her eyes but let it slide. The calm shifted—but this was her space now.
Next week, Margaret arrived with a wheeled suitcase.
“My knee’s playing up,” she sighed, toeing off her shoes. “Staying three days.”
“Two,” Emma said automatically.
“Fine, two. But no fridge inspections.”
“Why would I? I brought my own meals.” She patted the suitcase. “Meatballs, steamed fish, broth in a flask. I know you’re on that ‘trendy diet’…”
David peered from the living room, winked, and vanished. Emma sighed, then reorganised the fridge: Grandma’s food (top shelf), theirs (middle), Lily’s (labelled containers).
On day three, Margaret opened the freezer.
“Did you know there’s chicken in here?”
“Yes. David’s cooking it tomorrow.”
“Hmph. I’d do it now, with my sauce.”
“And I’d say no,” Emma smiled.
“You’re as stubborn as my mother-in-law. Only she lacked humour.”
“I’ve got plenty. Tea?”
“Fine. But none of those fancy root-infused ones.”
A month later, both grandmothers showed up unannounced.
“Saturday’s mine!” Caroline declared, unzipping her coat. “I baked a carrot cake. Healthy.”
“I booked this weekend last week!” Margaret countered. “My back’s out—I don’t travel weekdays!”
“Since when do we queue by ailments?”
“Pain trumps pastry.”
“Enough,” Emma cut in, baby on hip. “If you can’t share, you both leave.”
“To where?” they gasped.
“Home. You’re adults. Can’t share Lily? You get Zoom calls.”
“Zoom’s inhuman!” Caroline protested.
“Then act like humans and compromise.”
Silence. The threat of Zoom worked.
“Fine,” Margaret conceded. “We’ll both stay. But we sleep in the lounge.”
“On separate sofas!” Caroline added.
“Deal.”
Morning found them rumpled but civil.
“Turns out stew’s optional,” Margaret mused. “Tried your lentil soup. Not bad.”
“And your ironing’s neat,” Caroline admitted.
“Emma,” Margaret said carefully, “we’ve been thinking… What if we flat-shared?”
“Together?” Emma blinked.
“Why not? Visit you once a week, otherwise—tea, telly, backgammon.”
“With our own kitchen!” Caroline added. “And a rota.”
They laughed.
A week later, Emma visited theirAs she stepped back into her own quiet home, Emma realized that sometimes, the greatest peace comes not from absence, but from knowing everyone has found their place, and love—like a well-made stew—only grows richer when shared in just the right measure.
