The shrill buzz of the doorbell announced an unwelcome arrival. Lucy tossed her apron aside, wiped her hands, and headed for the door. There stood her daughter with a scruffy young man in tow. Without a word, Lucy stepped aside to let them in.
“Mum,” her daughter chirped, kissing her cheek, “meet Darren. He’s moving in with us.”
“Hello,” the lad mumbled.
“And this is my mum, Aunt Lucy.”
“Mrs. Ludmila Whitaker,” she corrected sharply.
“Mum, what’s for dinner?”
“Mashed peas and sausages.”
“I don’t eat mashed peas,” Darren declared, kicking off his trainers and strolling into the living room.
“Mum, seriously? Darren hates peas!” The girl’s eyes widened in theatrical dismay.
The boy flung himself onto the sofa, dropping his rucksack on the floor.
“That’s *my* living room,” Ludmila stated.
“Come on, Darren, I’ll show you where we’re staying,” Emily called.
“Like it here,” he grunted but reluctantly heaved himself up.
“Mum, figure out something else for Darren to eat.”
“All we’ve got is half a pack of sausages left,” Lucy sighed.
“Fine, with mustard and ketchup, and some bread,” Darren called from the hall.
“Lovely,” Lucy muttered, retreating to the kitchen. “First, she dragged home stray kittens, now *this*—feeding him, too?”
She spooned herself a generous portion of peas, slapped two fried sausages onto her plate, nudged the salad bowl closer, and ate with deliberate relish.
“Mum, why are you eating alone?” Emily marched in.
“Because I just got back from work, and I’m starving,” Lucy said around a mouthful. “If anyone else is hungry, they can serve themselves. And while we’re at it—why is Darren living here?”
“Why? Because he’s my *husband*.”
Lucy nearly choked.
“Your *what*?”
“Exactly. I’m an adult—nineteen, in case you forgot—and I don’t need permission to get married.”
“You didn’t even invite me to the wedding!”
“There *was* no wedding. Just signed the papers. Now we’re married, so he moves in.” Emily shot her mother a defiant glare.
“Congratulations. Why no wedding?”
“If you’ve got money for one, hand it over. We’ll put it to better use.”
“Right.” Lucy kept eating. “And why *here*?”
“Because his family’s crammed into a tiny flat, four of them in one room!”
“So renting was out of the question?”
“Why waste money when my room’s free?”
“I see.”
“So, are you feeding us or what?”
“Em, peas on the stove, sausages in the pan. Check the fridge if it’s not enough. Help yourselves.”
“Mum, you don’t get it—you’ve got a *son-in-law* now!” Emily hissed.
“And what? Should I throw a parade? I’m tired, Em. Arms and legs still work—sort yourselves out.”
“No wonder you’re still single!”
Emily stormed out, slamming the door.
Lucy finished eating, washed up, wiped the table, and headed to her room to change. Gym bag in hand, she left—free as ever, her evenings her own.
By ten, she returned, craving tea, only to find the kitchen wrecked. The saucepan lid was missing, the peas dried and cracked. Sausage wrappers littered the table beside stale, unwrapped bread. The frying pan was burnt, its coating gouged by a fork. The sink overflowed with dishes; a sticky puddle glistened on the floor. The flat reeked of cigarettes.
“Well, this is new. Em *never* pulled stunts like this.”
She pushed open her daughter’s door. The pair were swigging wine, smoke curling above them.
“Em, clean the kitchen. And tomorrow, buy a new pan.” Lucy turned away, leaving the door ajar.
Emily sprang up, chasing her.
“Why *us*? Where am I supposed to get money for a pan? I’m a student!”
“House rules: clean up after yourself, replace what you break, *especially* a £30 pan.”
“You just don’t want us here!”
“Damn right.”
“But I’ve got a *right*—”
“No, you don’t. This flat’s *mine*. Bought with my money. You’re *not* entitled. Want to stay? Follow the rules.”
“I’ve lived by your rules *forever*! I’m married now—you don’t *own* me!” Emily shrieked. “You’ve had your life—*give* us the flat!”
“Take the corridor outside, or the bench downstairs. Married? *Bully for you*. Sleep here alone, *never* with him. He’s *not* moving in.”
“Choke on your flat, then!” Emily screeched. “Darren, we’re leaving!”
Five minutes later, her “son-in-law” barged in.
“Listen, *Mum*—don’t push it. We’re staying. Behave, and we’ll keep the *noise* down.” He swayed, booze on his breath.
“I’m *not* your mum. Yours are elsewhere—*go* there.”
“Yeah? How’s *this*?” He swung.
Lucy trapped his fist in a vice grip, manicured nails digging deep.
“Ow! Crazy b—”
“Mum! *Stop!*” Emily clawed at her.
Lucy shoved her aside, kneed Darren square between the legs, then elbowed his throat.
“I’ll *sue* you!” he wheezed.
“Hold on—I’ll call the *police*, make it easier.”
They fled, abandoning her pristine two-bedroom flat.
“You’re *dead* to me!” Emily screamed. “No grandkids—*ever*!”
“What a shame,” Lucy drawled. “Peace at last.”
She inspected her nails—half ruined.
“Nothing but *losses* with you.”
After scrubbing the kitchen, binning the pan, and changing the locks, three months passed. Then, outside work, a gaunt Emily reappeared, hollow-cheeked and haunted.
“Mum… what’s for dinner?”
“Dunno. What do you want?”
“Roast chicken. And potato salad.”
“Let’s get the chicken, then. *You* make the salad.”
She asked no questions. Darren never resurfaced.
