The cold evening air seeped through the kitchen window as Charlotte stood with her back to her husband. The steam from the boiling kettle curled around her face, mirroring the tension in the room.
“You’ll be cooking for my sister’s family too,” James declared, his voice sharp with authoritywords he’d soon wish he could take back.
Charlotte’s knuckles whitened around her mug. Outside, a cramped white van pulled into their driveway, spilling out suitcases, a child’s bicycle, and a yowling cat carrier. Her stomach twisted. She’d known this was coming. For three days, James had paced their London flat with that guilty lookthe one that always preceded difficult conversations.
“Charlie,” he’d begun cautiously the night before, “remember I told you Emily’s having trouble with her landlord?”
She remembered. His younger sister had rented a two-bedroom flat in Croydon for years, living there with her husband David and their two childreneight-year-old Oliver and five-year-old Sophie. The place was decent, the landlord fair, but now the owner’s son was getting married and needed the property. The tenants had to leave…
“They’ve asked to stay with us for a bit,” James had continued, avoiding her eyes. “Just until they find somewhere new.”
Charlotte had nodded silently. What could she say? Emily was family. You didn’t turn family away.
“How long?” was all she’d asked.
“A fortnight, maybe three weeks at most,” James had said quickly. “David’s already got an estate agent lined up.”
Now, watching the chaos unfold in her driveway, Charlotte knew “a fortnight” was wishful thinking.
The children burst in firstOliver with a football under his arm, Sophie dragging a stuffed unicorn and chattering excitedly. The adults followedEmily clutching the cat carrier, David heaving suitcases, James laden with boxes.
“Charlie!” Emily beamed as she crossed the threshold. “Thank you so much for having us. Well be out of your hair soon, I promise…”
Charlotte forced a smile. Emily had always been sweet but hopelessly disorganised. Married young, devoted to her children, working freelance in graphic design while David handled the finances.
“Mum, where do we sleep?” Sophie asked immediately, surveying the compact flat.
Their two-bedroom home was cosy for twoa master bedroom, a small lounge with a sofa bed, a modest kitchen. For six people and a cat?
“We’ll take the sofa bed,” Emily said quickly. “The kids can share a blow-up mattress in the lounge.”
“Sorted,” James agreed.
Within hours, their orderly flat became a cramped hostel. Children’s toys colonised the lounge, suitcases blocked the hallway, and the cattemporarily banished to the bathroomyowled indignantly. The air smelled of unfamiliar shampoo and takeaway curry.
Charlotte watched her sanctuary dissolve. What stung most was how easily everyone assumed ownership. As if her home were suddenly communal property.
“Charlie, where do you keep the bin bags?” Emily called from the kitchen.
“Under the sink.”
“Mind if I borrow a towel? Ours are still packed.”
“Go ahead.”
By bedtime, reality set in. The children raced through a game of tag, the cat howled for attention, and the adults debated rental prices over tea.
“Well check that new development near Canary Wharf tomorrow,” David said. “The agent swears its perfect.”
“Nothing too pricey,” Emily sighed. “Our budgets tight.”
“Youll find something,” James said confidently. “Worst case, you stay here a bit longer.”
Charlottes head snapped up. Longer? James caught her glare and looked away.
“Right, Ill sort supper,” Charlotte said, retreating to the kitchen.
She inventoried the fridgea chicken, some pasta, vegetables. Enough for two, stretched thin for six.
“Whats for dinner?” Oliver peered in.
“Pasta,” Charlotte said.
“At home Mum makes spaghetti bolognese,” Sophie chimed in.
“We dont have mince,” Charlotte said evenly.
“Lena, honestly, well eat anything,” Emily said, appearing with her laptop. “Ive got a deadlinemind starting without me?”
Dinner was meagre. The children devoured it; the adults pretended not to notice the portions.
“Lovely, thanks,” Emily said afterward.
“Brilliant,” David echoed.
Charlotte cleaned up alone while the others settled the children.
“Alright?” James asked, entering the kitchen.
“Fine,” she clipped.
“Dont fret. Theyll find a place soon.”
“Mm.”
James hesitated, then left.
Morning erupted with shrieks and thundering footsteps. Six-thirty. Charlotte usually rose at seven.
“Quiet!” Emily hissed. “Aunties sleeping!”
Too late.
In the kitchen, breakfast became a military operation. Cereal spilled, milk sloshed, lunchboxes waited to be packed.
“Oliver, eat your toast,” Emily urged.
“I want pancakes like at home!”
“There isnt time”
Charlottes temples throbbed. This was only Day One.
By weeks end, she was a live-in maidcooking, cleaning, refereeing squabbles. Her freelance work languished untouched.
“James, this isnt working,” she said that night.
“What dyou mean?”
“Im cooking, cleaning, babysittingwhile everyone treats me like staff.”
“Dont be dramatic. Emily deals with the kids”
“And I deal with everything else!”
An uneasy truce followed. Chore charts were drafted. Promises made.
Then, one evening, as Charlotte chopped vegetables, James entered.
“By the wayOliver starts school Monday. Well need breakfasts earlier. Packed lunches too.”
Charlottes knife stilled.
“And Emily says the kids need laundry done.”
“Does she.”
James shrugged. “And obviously, with more mouths to feed…”
“Obviously what?”
“Youll be cooking for my sisters family too,” he said, tone finaland instantly knew hed erred.
Charlotte set the knife down. Slowly.
“Say that again.”
“Youll… cook. Since theres more of us now.”
“I see.”
She unhooked her apron.
“Charlottewhere are you going?”
“To pack.”
Upstairs, she yanked James suitcase from the wardrobe. Shirts, trousers, socksall folded precisely, as always.
Back in the lounge, she set the case before the stunned family.
“Ive a proposal,” she said calmly. “Youll all stay at your mums house in Kent. Plenty of space. The children can run wild.”
“Charlie, dont be absurd” James began.
“Absurd is expecting one person to wait on five. I wont live like this.”
An hour later, the car was packed. James mothera no-nonsense woman in her seventiesmet them at the door.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked dryly.
“Weve some thinking to do,” Charlotte said. “About fair division of labour.”
The older womans eyes flicked to her son. “Ah. I see.”
Two days later, a contrite family returned with a signed chore rota. Meals, cleaning, laundryall equitably assigned.
It wasnt perfect. Emily “forgot” her cooking days; David “missed” dirty dishes. But Charlotte held firm.
A month later, Emilys family found a new flat.
“Thank you,” Emily admitted on moving day. “We needed that shake-up.”
At home, James sighed. “You were right. Im sorry.”
Charlotte smiled. “Just rememberno orders in this house. Only agreements.”
And from then on, there were none.
