The shrill ring of the doorbell announced a visitor. Lucy wiped her hands on her apron and went to answer. Her daughter, Emily, stood on the doorstep with a young man in tow. Lucy let them inside with a raised eyebrow.
“Hi, Mum,” Emily chirped, kissing her cheek. “Meet Jason—he’s moving in with us.”
“Pleasure,” the lad muttered.
“And this is my mum, Auntie Lucy.”
“Mrs. Lucy Thompson,” she corrected sharply.
“Mum, what’s for dinner?” Emily pressed.
“Pea mash and sausages.”
“I don’t eat pea mash,” Jason declared, kicking off his trainers and slouching toward the sofa, dropping his backpack on the floor.
“Seriously, Mum? Jason hates peas,” Emily whined, widening her eyes dramatically.
“That happens to be my living room,” Lucy pointed out.
“Jason, come on, I’ll show you where we’ll stay!” Emily called.
“Meh, I like it here,” he grumbled, but shuffled after her.
“Mum, figure out something else for Jason to eat, yeah?”
“Unless he fancies the last two bangers in the fridge, there’s not much else,” Lucy shrugged.
“Fine—just slather ’em with mustard and ketchup, chuck in some bread,” Jason called from down the hall.
“Lovely,” Lucy muttered, heading to the kitchen. “First it was stray cats, then rescue dogs—now this. Fat lot of good that’ll do.”
She piled her plate with buttery mash, two crisp sausages, and a scoop of salad before tucking in.
“Mum, why are you eating alone?” Emily reappeared, frowning.
“Because I just worked a twelve-hour shift, and I’m starving,” Lucy said between bites. “If you’re hungry, serve yourselves—or cook. One question, though. Why’s Jason living here now?”
“Why d’you think? He’s my husband.”
Lucy nearly choked.
“Come again?”
“Exactly what I said. I’m an adult—nineteen, in case you’ve forgotten—and I decide when I marry. No one else.”
“You didn’t invite me to the wedding.”
“Didn’t have one. Just signed the papers. Now we’re married, so we live together,” Emily snapped, eyeing her mother’s half-chewed sausage.
“Congratulations. Why no ceremony, then?”
“Got spare cash for a reception? Hand it over, and we’ll put it to good use.”
“Right,” Lucy said flatly, polishing off her dinner. “And why under my roof?”
“His flat’s a shoebox—four blokes crammed in. Not exactly honeymoon material.”
“So renting was out of the question?”
“Why waste money when I’ve got my own room?”
“Obviously.”
“Are you feeding us or what?”
“Pea mash is on the hob, sausages in the pan. If that’s not enough, there’s half a pack in the fridge. Help yourselves.”
“Mum, you’re missing the point—you’ve got a SON-IN-LAW now,” Emily emphasized.
“And? Should I break out the conga line? I’m exhausted, love. Sort yourselves out.”
“No wonder you’re still single!” Emily stormed off, slamming her bedroom door.
Lucy finished eating, washed up, and left for her Pilates class. She cherished her independence—three evenings a week were hers alone.
By ten, she returned to a kitchen disaster: cracked, dried-out mash, an empty sausage packet, stale bread left out, and a ruined frying pan—its non-stick coating gouged by a fork. Sticky soda pooled on the floor, and the flat reeked of smoke.
“Charming. Never knew Emily had it in her.”
She pushed open her daughter’s door. The pair were swigging wine and puffing on cigarettes.
“Sort the kitchen. And replace that pan tomorrow.”
“Why should we? I’m a student—where would I get the money? Too cheap to share your precious pans?”
“House rules, Em: clean up after yourself. Break something? Replace it. That pan wasn’t cheap, and now it’s scrap.”
“You just don’t want us here!”
“Not like this, no.”
“But I’ve got rights to this place!”
“Actually, no. I bought this flat—it’s mine. You want to stay? Follow the rules.”
“I’m sick of your rules! I’m married now—you don’t get to boss me around. You’ve had your turn; hand the flat over.”
“You can have the hallway bench. Listen, sweetheart—married or not, he’s not moving in. Pack his bags.”
“Stuff your flat! Jason, we’re leaving!” Emily screeched, yanking clothes from drawers.
Minutes later, Jason loomed in Lucy’s doorway, swaying.
“Listen, old girl—play nice, and we’ll keep the racket down. Or else.”
“Old girl? Hop back to your real mum, and take your wife with you.”
His fist shot toward her face—but Lucy caught it, nails digging in.
“Ow! Let go, you nutter!”
“Mum, stop!” Emily clawed at her.
Lucy shoved her aside, kneeing Jason square in the groin before elbowing his throat.
“I’ll sue for assault!” he wheezed.
“Shall I call the police to witness it?”
They fled, but not before Emily hissed, “You’re dead to me. Enjoy dying alone.”
“What a tragedy,” Lucy sighed, inspecting her chipped manicure. “Peace at last.”
She scrubbed the kitchen, binned the ruined pan, and changed the locks.
Three months later, a gaunt Emily approached her outside work.
“Mum… what’s for dinner?”
“Dunno yet. Fancy anything?”
“Roast chicken. And potato salad.”
“Let’s grab a bird, then. You make the salad.”
Lucy asked no questions. Jason never resurfaced.
—
*Sometimes standing your ground is the only way to teach respect—especially when love’s been mistaken for a free pass.*