Jane returned from the maternity wardonly to find a second refrigerator standing in her kitchen. “This ones for me and Mumdont put your food in here,” her husband announced.
She nudged the front door open with her shoulder, clutching little Alfies swaddled form tightly to her chest. The October wind had still managed to slip beneath her coat, and now all she craved was warmth, quiet, and peace.
The hospital was behind her; ahead lay her homethe flat shed inherited from her grandmother and had put in her name before the wedding. Every corner was familiar, every crack in the ceiling a relic of the past. This was where she ought to feel safe.
Oliver strode in first, kicked off his shoes, and dropped his coat carelessly on the hallway floor. Jane stepped over the thresholdthen froze. Something was off. The air carried a foreign scentnot her perfume, not her hand cream. Something floral lingered, mingling with a sharp, unfamiliar aroma.
“Hurry up, stop dawdling,” Oliver called over his shoulder without turning.
Jane slipped off her shoes and moved slowly down the hall. The living room was dim, an unfamiliar rose-embroidered cushion sprawled on the sofa. A vase of plastic flowers sat on the coffee tabledefinitely not there a week ago.
Clattering came from the kitchen. At the stove stood Margaret, her mother-in-law, apron-clad, stirring something in a pot. Her hair was perfectly set, pearls around her neck, lips paintedmore like a hostess preparing for guests than a mother-in-law welcoming her daughter-in-law home from hospital.
“Oh, Jane! At last!” Margaret exclaimed, not stepping away from the pot. “Lets see the baby! Bring him here, quick!”
Jane instinctively stepped forwardbut her gaze snagged on something by the far wall: something large and gleaming. Beside the old refrigerator, which had stood there for years, now sat a second onenew, silver, factory stickers still on its plastic-wrapped handles.
“Where did this come from?” Jane asked, confused.
Margaret turned, wiping her hands on her apron, smiling as if shed just pulled off a delightful surprise.
“We bought it! Oliver came with uspicked out a good, spacious one. Now therell finally be order in the kitchen. Proper nutritions vital, especially with a baby. You understand, dont you?”
“With us?” Jane echoed. “Whos us?”
“Why, me, of course!” Margaret clicked her wooden spoon sharply. “Ill be staying nowto help. I thought Oliver had told you.”
The blood drained from Janes face. Alfie began to whimper in her arms, and she instinctively held him tighter.
“Oliver?” she called, turning toward the door.
Her husband walked in just then, two grocery bags in hand. His face was weary, his gaze distant.
“What?”
“Your mum says shes moving in?”
Oliver nodded as if discussing a loaf of bread.
“Course. Youll need the help. Mum agreed to stay awhileuntil youre back on your feet.”
“Awhile?” Jane frowned. “And the fridge?”
“Oh, that.” Oliver set the bags down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Mum got itso her food stays separate. Shes on a special diet.”
“Special diet,” Jane repeated slowly. “In my flat.”
“Jane, not this again. Im knackered. Mums only trying to help, and youre making drama.”
Margaret confidently opened the new fridge and began unpacking the bags. Jane watched: yoghurts, cottage cheese, labelled jars, boxes of vegetables.
“See?” Margaret shut the door. “Now everyone has their own space. No ones in each others way.”
Jane wanted to speak, but Alfie wailedloud, demanding. He needed feeding, changing, settling. Her head throbbed with exhaustion; she had no strength left. Every question faded into the background.
“Go on, feed the baby,” Margaret shooed. “Ill sort things here.”
Jane drifted out of the kitchen and into the bedroom. Something here had changed too. Strange items cluttered the dresserhand cream, a perfume bottle, a hairbrush. A bathrobe, clearly not hers, was tossed over the chair.
“Oliver,” she said quietly, sitting on the bed.
He appeared in the doorway.
“What now?”
“Why are your mums things in our bedroom?”
“Shes sleeping on the sofa, but she put her bits in here so theyre not in the way. Whats the fuss?”
“Its my flat.”
Oliver sighed as if Jane were picking at something trivial.
“Jane, drop it. Mums here to help, and youre nitpicking. Would you rather cope alone?”
Jane said nothing. Alfie suckled, his tiny nose snuffling, while uneasy thoughts churned in her mind. How had this happened? Shed left her own flatwhere she lived with her husbandand returned to what? A shared house where everyone had separate fridges and rules?
When Alfie was fed and asleep, Jane carefully placed him in the crib by the window. It was time to understand. She returned to the kitchen.
Margaret sat at the table, sipping tea and flipping through a magazine.
“Asleep? Good. Babies need routine from day one.”
Jane opened the old fridge. It was nearly emptyjust a bottle of milk, a scrap of cheese, a few eggs. Everything else was gone.
“Margaret, wheres the food?” she asked.
“What food, love?”
“The chicken, vegetables, juicesthat were in here.”
“Oh, those.” Margaret took a sip. “I binned them. Theyd gone off, smelled funny. Didnt want you poisoning yourself.”
Jane stiffened.
“You threw away my food?”
“Jane, dont shout,” Oliver cut in, entering. “Mum did right. Better safe than sorry.”
“Im not shouting,” Jane said, voice steady. “But did you check the dates, Margaret?”
“Why would I? I trust my nose. A mothers instinct.” She smiled.
Jane shut the fridge and turned to Oliver.
“Can we talk?”
He nodded reluctantly and followed her to the bedroom. Jane eased the door shut so Alfie wouldnt wake.
“Explain this to me,” she whispered. “Im gone a week, and your mother acts like she owns the place.”
“Shes not in charge,” Oliver defended. “Shes helping.”
“Helping?” Jane crossed her arms. “Throwing out my food, bringing her own fridge, spreading her things everywhere?”
“Jane, Mum means well. You said yourself itd be hard with the baby. I found a solution.”
“A solution?” Jane leaned against the doorframe. “Did you even ask me?”
“When should I? Your phone died at the hospital. Mum offered, and I said yes.”
“Offered to move into my flat with her own fridge?” Jane couldnt believe her ears.
“It wasnt like that.” Oliver looked away. “Mum said her neighbours were awfulalways drilling. Then you had Alfie, so I thoughtwhy not? Two birds, one stone.”
“Two birds?” Jane repeated. “So your mum escapes her noisy neighbours and gets to control us. Is that it?”
“Control?” Oliver raised his voice. “Youre overreacting! Mum wants to help, and youre being paranoid!”
Alfie stirred, whimpering. Jane picked him up and rocked him gently.
“Oliver, lets agree on this,” she said calmly. “Your mum can visit, help during the day. But living here? No. This is my flatI decide who stays.”
“Its my home too,” Oliver snapped. “Or am I just your lodger?”
“Youre my husband. But the flats in my name. I wont have a second fridge.”
Oliver clenched his fists.
“So thats your trump card? My flat, my rules?”
“Im stating facts.”
“Facts?” He sneered. “Fine. Lets talk facts. Who pays the bills? Who buys the food? Who fixed the boiler last winter?”
“We did it together,” Jane said.
“Together?” Oliver stepped closer. “You were part-time. I worked like a dog. Still do. And youre on maternity leave, making demands.”
Jane pressed her lips together. His words stung, but she wouldnt back down.
“Fine. Ill go back to work in a month. You stay home with Alfie.”
Oliver scoffed.
“Seriously? Whod take you back so soon?”
“They will. Im good at my job.”
“Good,” he mocked. “Right. No more arguing. Mum stays. End of.”
He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. Alfie startled and cried. Jane held him close, humming a lullaby her own grandmother had taught her.
The next morning, Jane woke to the sound of running water. Alfie still slept; outside, it was dark. The clock read six. She rose and went to the kitchen.
