“Oh, hello there, hello, kingdom of chaos! Vic, you’re always at home. You could’ve at least done the washing up,” Mum scolded the moment she stepped into the kitchen.
Vicky was just pulling the bedsheets out of the washing machine. They hung limply from her arms, cold and clammy against her skin. Her fingers trembled from exhaustion, her back ached, and straightening up felt like a struggle.
From the other room came a whimper. Tim. Awake again.
“Mum, is that *really* all you can think about?” Vicky asked, her voice dull. “You know the kids are sick.”
Lydia set a bag of oranges on the table. Her eyes swept over the kitchen like a seasoned inspector before she sighed in disappointment.
“I just don’t understand how you can live in such a mess. You’ve only got two kids, not ten. And a husband.”
Vicky didn’t reply. She just draped the pillowcase over the radiator and hunched there for a second. She wanted to scream in her mum’s face, to say that two kids *were* a handful, but she didn’t have the energy for shouting.
All her strength had gone into managing Tim’s tantrums, battling Sophie’s fever, the endless cooking, the frantic school runs, and sleepless nights. It all weighed on her like a millstone around her neck. And as the cherry on top—her mum, with her relentless obsession over tidiness.
Vicky slipped into the hallway just to catch her breath. She peeked into the bedroom. Sophie was asleep, damp curls sticking to her forehead. Tim was already sitting up in his cot, rubbing his eyes with tiny fists.
“I thought you came to help,” Vicky hissed under her breath as she returned to the kitchen, toddler in arms. “The dishes can wait. Just sit with the kids for a bit.”
“Vic, whose kids are they? Yours. I’m not exactly a spring chicken anymore. Easier for me to tackle dishes than toddlers.”
“Mum! Can you *please* forget about your bloody plates for one second and stop looking for dust? One’s got a fever, the other’s been clingy all day! I haven’t slept in three nights. Your oranges, your lectures, your wet wipes—none of it’s helping.”
Lydia’s lips pursed tight. Her nostrils flared with indignation.
“I’m helping how I can.”
“No, you’re not helping. You’re just piling on. Like always.”
Vicky lowered Tim into the playpen, then grabbed the bag of fruit and held it out to her mum.
“Take your oranges and go. Please.”
Even Tim fell silent then. Lydia gave her daughter a withering look, then glanced at the bag. She snatched it like it was primed to explode and stormed out.
When the tightness in her chest eased a little, Vicky sank onto the floor beside the playpen and pulled Tim close. He sneezed against her shoulder. She sighed—just what she needed.
She’d always bitten her tongue before, grinding her teeth through her mum’s jabs. Because… well, she was her mum. That’s just how it was. Plenty of her mates had relatives like that—not just mums. Grandmas, mothers-in-law. Everyone just put up with it.
Vicky had hoped her mum might change one day, but she never did.
It had been the same when she was a kid. One memory stuck with her—she’d won third place in a county spelling bee in Year 5. They gave her a certificate and a bar of chocolate as a prize. Beaming, she’d handed the chocolate to her mum, about to say she owed it partly to her, but she never got the chance.
“Look at this—you’ve gone and smeared mud all over your coat! And you walked around like that?” Lydia lamented. “You’re a young lady. You ought to be neater.”
If Mum found so much as a single B in her report card, she’d rage about it. When Vicky mopped the floors, her mum would inspect behind the radiators and under the doors.
Lydia never praised her. At best, she stayed silent; at worst, she found a way to twist the knife. All her compliments seemed rationed, and those tokens were never for Vicky.
Vicky’s husband, Will, knew all about it. He’d heard Lydia say things like:
“Why do your kids need so many toys? When you were little, a few puzzles and wooden blocks were enough.”
Vicky tried not to invite Lydia over for meals. But when she had to, she braced herself for the usual critiques.
“The roast’s dry again. Overcooked.”
But Mum asking how she was doing, or how her day had been? That never happened.
That evening, Vicky texted Will to vent. He knew the kids were sick. He knew she was struggling. He knew how things were with her mum. But he was away on business. Still, at least he could listen.
“She’s gone,” she wrote. “Zero help, just endless nagging.”
“Good,” he replied instantly. “About time.”
It lifted a weight off her chest—validation that she’d done the right thing. She needed to hear it from someone who saw her mum for what she was.
Sleep didn’t come easy. She woke up coughing. The room was still dark, just the LED on the telly glowing red. She fumbled for her phone under the pillow—5:30. Not even dawn yet.
Tim was squirming restlessly in his cot. Beside him, Sophie sniffled and tossed.
Sitting up, Vicky’s head pounded like she’d been hit with a sledgehammer. Her throat was scratchy, her legs wobbly.
She dragged herself to the kitchen and peered into the fridge. Empty. A souring pint of milk, a nearly empty tub of cheese spread, a few eggs. Somewhere, there were two stale slices of bread and a box of pasta.
Maybe she could scrape together breakfast, but what then? Sophie’s medicine was running low. And Vicky could’ve done with something herself. But how could she nip out with the kids alone? Delivery wasn’t reliable here, especially for prescriptions.
“Need the chemist. But no one to watch the kids… Don’t know what to do,” she texted Will.
“I’ll ask Alice,” he replied half an hour later.
Vicky scoffed. Alice was practically glued to her phone and laptop—her blog, filming, editing, courses, her day job. She hadn’t even gotten a dog, though she wanted one, because who had the time? And now—sick kids, an overwhelmed sister-in-law, a last-minute favour?
Vicky didn’t hold out hope, but a couple of hours later, the doorbell rang. Alice stood there, smoothing her windswept hair, fiddling with her collar—but there.
“Blimey, can I get some water? Stuck in traffic—throat’s parched. Pour me some, I’ll wash up and see to Tim.”
Vicky’s jaw nearly hit the floor. Alice breezed in, leaned over Tim’s cot, smiled, and touched his little fingers.
“Who’s this grumpy one, then? Show me your toys? Or are you more into Mum’s hairbrushes? Heard you broke her favourite,” she chirped, tickling him.
Like she’d known him his whole life. Like she hadn’t only seen him twice at holidays. Like there hadn’t been a frost between them when Alice missed Will and Vicky’s wedding for work.
Soon, Alice was feeding Tim a banana, half-glancing at her phone—probably work emails.
“How’s Soph?” she asked.
“In her room. Still feverish. Won’t drink much. And we’re nearly out of syrup.”
“Well, what’re you waiting for? Give me a list! Or go yourself—I’ll stay,” Alice huffed, but it sounded more worried than cross.
When Vicky got back, Tim was asleep in the playpen beside Alice, who was scrolling through something on her laptop.
“Put cartoons on. Knocked him out. Not ideal, but better than everyone losing it over crying,” Alice said without looking up. “I’ll stay tonight. Sort some work from here, shuffle the rest. We’ll manage.”
Something inside Vicky sank into soft snow, then thawed. *We’ll manage.*
She remembered the time she’d needed scans in another city. Will had been away then too. Tim wasn’t born yet, so it was just Soph—still tough, but easier.
“Mum, can you take Soph? Just two days. Need an MRI and tests.”
“Oh, Vicky, absolutely not. What if something happens? I wouldn’t notice, then it’d be all my fault. Don’t put that on me,” Lydia had said.
Vicky had rented a flat, hauled a backpack and pushchair, juggling it all alone. When the doctor mentioned surgery might be needed, her stomach clenched. *Please don’t let it be urgent…* She couldn’t afford that luxury right now.
And now—here.*But as the door finally clicked shut, Vicky realised something had shifted—she was done waiting for an apology that would never come, and that, in itself, was enough.*
