—Where are they?— Hannah anxiously checked the kitchen, then the living room. Empty. The house was silent, an unsettling and unfamiliar quiet.
Everything had been unbearable since morning. Her mother—stern, stubborn, with a critical eye and endless complaints. Her husband—withdrawn, irritable, deaf to any request. They’d agreed to let her mother stay with them “just for a week.” That week had passed. Then two more.
—Mum! Oliver!— she called loudly. No answer. Her chest tightened.
She threw on her coat and hurried to the garage. That’s where her husband usually hid—tinkering with old furniture, escaping the weight of daily life. The door was slightly open, voices drifting out.
—If you prep the surface properly, the varnish will go on smoothly,— her mother said. Her tone was soft, almost gentle.
—I usually thin the first coat,— Oliver replied. —Helps the wood absorb it better.
Hannah froze at the threshold, afraid to disturb the fragile peace. Before her, the impossible: her mother and husband—always at odds—sat together at the table, restoring an old mirror frame. Her mother’s apron was speckled with varnish, Oliver’s hands busy with sandpaper and a brush.
—Well, I never,— Hannah murmured, slipping into the room to watch.
A few weeks ago, she’d insisted—Mum had to move in. The care home where she’d lived since Dad’s death was under renovation. They’d promised temporary relocation. But her mother had been firm: “I’d rather stay with my daughter. I’ll help, not be a burden.”
Oliver hadn’t been thrilled. He’d never hidden his feelings—his mother-in-law and he didn’t see eye to eye. Too different. She was sharp, demanding, unyielding. He was quiet but held grudges.
From day one, there were clashes—forks misplaced, shirts folded wrong, doors slammed too hard. Evenings were spent listening to their silent resentment. Two strong-willed people, used to being in charge, under one roof.
She’d feared their marriage wouldn’t survive.
But now—here they were, sitting together. Her mother, it turned out, had spent her younger years working at a furniture workshop. Oliver, a self-taught restorer, had always wished for a mentor.
—You’ve got a steady hand,— he said. —Not many can do it like that.
—You’ve got talent,— her mother replied. —Good instincts.
Later, brewing tea and pulling out an old jar of jam from the cupboard, Hannah finally broke.
—Who replaced my mother?
Her mother scoffed.
—Just never had anything to talk about before. Now we’ve found common ground. Thought he was hopeless, but look at his work!
Oliver laughed.
—And here I was, convinced you couldn’t stand me.
—Can’t stand foolishness. Turns out, you’re not foolish.
Hannah just watched them, then smiled.
That night, as they lay in bed, Oliver whispered:
—Glad your mum’s here. Never thought we’d get along.
The next morning, her mother announced:
—I’ve decided. Not going back to the care home. Staying. Helping you two open that workshop you’ve talked about.
Hannah didn’t argue. When two people who could barely look at each other—start understanding, valuing, helping—it’s not a disaster. It’s a miracle.
And maybe, just maybe, this house would feel peaceful again. Even warm.
