The shrill ringing of the doorbell announced an arrival. Lucy tossed aside her apron, wiped her hands, and went to answer. On the doorstep stood her daughter alongside a young man. The woman let them into the flat.
“Hello, Mum,” her daughter pecked her on the cheek. “Meet Dave—he’s going to live with us now.”
“Evening,” the lad greeted.
“And this is my mum, Auntie Lucy.”
“*Mrs. Lucy Whitmore*,” she corrected her daughter.
“Mum, what’s for supper?”
“Mashed peas and sausages.”
“I don’t eat mashed peas,” the boy replied, kicked off his shoes, and wandered into the living room.
“Honestly, Mum, Dave can’t stand peas,” the girl gasped, eyes wide.
He sprawled on the sofa, dropping his rucksack carelessly on the floor.
“That’s *my* sitting room, actually,” said Lucy.
“Dave, come on—I’ll show you where we’ll stay,” Jenny called.
“Fine here,” he grumbled, hauling himself up.
“Mum, figure out something else for Dave to eat, yeah?”
“Dunno—we’ve only half a pack of sausages left,” Lucy shrugged.
“Fine with me—mustard, ketchup, bit of bread,” he called back.
“Lovely,” was all Lucy could muster, heading to the kitchen. “First it was stray cats and dogs, now this. Next I’ll be feeding him too.”
She heaped her plate with mashed peas, added two fried sausages, nudged the salad bowl closer, and dug in.
“Mum, why’re you eating alone?” her daughter barged in.
“Cos I worked all day and I’m hungry,” Lucy said between bites. “If anyone else wants supper, they can serve themselves or cook. And while we’re at it—why’s Dave moving in?”
“What d’you mean, why? He’s my husband.”
Lucy nearly choked.
“Your *what*?”
“Yes, your grown daughter can decide if she weds or not. I’m nineteen, in case you forgot.”
“You didn’t even invite me to the wedding.”
“Wasn’t one. Just signed the papers. Now we’re man and wife, so he’s moving in,” Jenny said, eyeing her chewing mother.
“Congratulations. But why no wedding?”
“If you’ve got money for a do, hand it over—we’ll put it to better use.”
“Right,” Lucy kept eating. “And why *here*?”
“His lot live four to a one-bed flat.”
“So renting wasn’t an option?”
“Why bother when I’ve got my own room?” Jenny scoffed.
“Ah.”
“Anyway, got anything proper for us to eat?”
“Jen, peas in the pot, sausages in the pan. If that’s not enough, there’s half a pack left in the fridge. Help yourselves.”
“Mum, don’t you get it? You’ve got a SON-IN-LAW now,” she hissed.
“And? Want me to dance a jig to celebrate? Jen, I’m knackered. Fetch your own supper—you’ve got hands.”
“No wonder you’re still single!”
Jenny glared and stormed off, slamming the bedroom door. Lucy finished, washed up, wiped the table, and changed for her evening swim. She was a free woman, after all, and spent her nights at the gym or pool.
By ten, she returned to a wrecked kitchen—someone had attempted cooking. The saucepan lid was missing, leaving the peas dried and cracked. Sausage wrappers littered the table alongside stale, unpackaged bread. The frying pan was scorched, its coating scratched by a fork. Sticky puddles gleamed underfoot, and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air.
“Blimey. Never seen Jenny do *this* before.”
She pushed open her daughter’s door. The pair were swigging wine and smoking.
“Jen, clean the kitchen. And you’ll replace that pan tomorrow,” Lucy said, leaving the door ajar as she retreated.
Jenny leapt up, chasing her.
“Why us? And where’m I supposed to get the money? I’m at uni!”
“Rules of this house: clean up after yourself. Ruin something—replace it. That pan wasn’t cheap.”
“You just don’t want us here!”
“Too right,” Lucy said calmly. She’d no energy for rows—Jenny had never been like this before.
“But I’ve a right to this flat!”
“No. It’s *mine*. I earned it. You’re only registered here. Sort your own problems. Stay? Follow the rules.”
“Your rules, always! I’m married now—you don’t tell me what to do!” Jenny shrieked. “You’ve had your turn—hand the flat over!”
“You can have the corridor bench. Married without asking me? He’s not living here. Out—tonight.”
“Sod your flat! Dave, we’re leaving!” Jenny scrambled for her things.
Minutes later, the new “son-in-law” barged in.
“Listen, *Mum*—pipe down, yeah?” He swayed, reeking of drink. “We’re staying. Be nice, we’ll keep the noise down tonight.”
“Your *mum*’s at *your* place. Take your bride and shove off.”
“Right—” He raised a fist.
Lucy seized his wrist, manicured nails sinking in.
“Ow! Mental cow—let go!”
“Mum, stop!” Jenny wailed, pulling at her.
Lucy shoved her aside, kneed Dave sharply, then elbowed his throat.
“I’ll press charges!” he squealed.
“Hold on—I’ll ring the police myself.”
The pair fled the tidy two-bed flat.
“You’re dead to me!” Jenny screamed. “No grandkids for you!”
“What a shame,” Lucy muttered, examining her broken nails. “Peace at last.”
She scrubbed the kitchen, binned the ruined food and pan, and changed the locks.
Three months later, Jenny met her outside work—gaunt, hollow-cheeked, miserable.
“Mum… what’s for supper?”
“Dunno. Fancy something?”
“Chicken and rice,” Jenny whispered. “And potato salad.”
“Let’s fetch chicken, then. Make the salad yourself.”
Lucy asked no questions. Dave was never mentioned again.
