The heavy silence in the kitchen was broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Lucy gripped the edge of the counter, her knuckles white. Outside, a delivery van rattled down their quiet London street, but she barely heard it. Three days she’d watched James shuffle about their Kensington flat with that guilty expression, bracing himself for this conversation.
“Lu,” he’d begun cautiously the night before, “remember I mentioned Emily’s having trouble with her lease?”
She remembered. His younger sister had rented a two-bed in Croydon for years with her husband, David, and their two childreneleven-year-old Oliver and seven-year-old Sophie. The flat was decent, the landlord fair, but the man’s son was returning from university and needed the place. The tenants had to go.
“Theyve asked to stay with us a while,” James continued, avoiding her gaze. “Just until they find something…”
Lucy had nodded silently. What could she say? Emily was his only sister; they were close. You didnt turn family away. And the situation was direyou couldnt leave a family of four without a roof.
“How long?” was all shed asked.
“Two, maybe three weeks tops,” James had said quickly. “Theyre already flat-hunting. Davids got an estate agent on it.”
Now, watching suitcases, school bags, and a pet carrier being unloaded from a black cab, Lucy knew “three weeks” was a fantasy.
The children bounded in firstOliver lugging a football kit, Sophie clutching a tattered teddy, both chattering excitedly. The adults followedEmily with the family spaniel on a lead, David heaving suitcases, James with boxes stacked precariously in his arms.
“Lucy!” Emily gushed, cheeks flushed. “Thank you so much for having us. Well be out of your hair soon…”
Lucy hugged her sister-in-law, genuinely sympathetic. Emily had always been kind but hopelessly disorganised. Married young after uni, children straight afterher world was school runs and packed lunches. She freelanced in graphic design, but David handled most decisions.
“Mum, where do we sleep?” Sophie piped up, wide-eyed.
Their two-bed flat was cosy but not spacious. The master bedroom was theirs, the second a study with a pull-out sofa, the kitchen barely large enough for two. Perfect for themimpossible for six.
“Well take the sofa bed,” Emily said brightly. “The kids can share an air mattress in the study?”
“Theres already the sofa there,” James pointed out.
“And Biscuit?” Sophie fretted, patting the spaniels head.
“Hell stay in the hall,” David decided. “Plenty of space for his bed.”
By teatime, their orderly flat had become a makeshift hostel. The study was overrun with toys, the hallway lined with suitcases, the spaniel whining by the loo”just till he settles.” The air smelled of unfamiliar shampoo and takeaway.
Lucy watched her sanctuary vanish. What struck her most was how effortlessly theyd colonised her home. As if it were some shared boarding house, not her private space.
“Lu, 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.”
“Of course.”
By bedtime, the truth was undeniable: their old life was over. The children shrieked playing hide-and-seek, the dog scratched at doors, the adults debated Zoopla listings over wine.
“Tomorrow well pop into the agency on High Streetthe bloke theres decent,” David was saying. “Then well check out a few places in Clapham.”
“Nothing too pricey,” Emily sighed. “Budgets tight.”
“Youll find something,” James said confidently. “Worst case, you can stay a bit longer.”
Lucys head snapped up. *Longer?* She caught James eyehe looked away, guilty.
“Right,” Lucy said abruptly. “Ill start supper.”
She yanked open the fridge, mentally calculating portions. She shopped for two, with leftovers for lunch. Now there were six mouths to feed, including children who ate like horses.
“Whats for dinner?” Oliver asked, peering in.
“Dunno yet,” Lucy admitted.
“At home Mum makes bangers and mash,” Sophie announced.
“Were out of sausages,” Lucy said, rummaging in the freezer.
For six, she had a chicken, half a bag of pasta, wilted veg, and yesterdays leftover curry. Would it stretch?
“Lu, dont fuss,” Emily said, breezing in. “Well eat anything.”
“Yeah, but there might not be enough.”
“Well hit Waitrose tomorrow.”
Lucy nodded silently, chopping chicken. She already knew tomorrows shopping would fall to her.
Dinner was meagre. Chicken pasta for six wasnt the same as for two. The kids devoured theirs; the adults pretended not to notice the skimpy portions.
“Lovely, thanks,” Emily said warmly.
“Brilliant,” David chimed in.
Afterward, Lucy cleaned alonethe others were busy settling the kids.
“Alright?” James asked, hovering in the doorway.
“Fine.”
“Dont worry, theyll find a place soon.”
“Mmm.”
He caught her tone but let it go. Enough drama for one day.
Lucy woke at dawn to giggles and thudding footsteps. The clock read 6:15. Normally she rose at seven, but today the children had other plans.
“Shh, Uncle and Auntie are sleeping!” Emily hissedtoo late.
In the kitchen, Lucy found a tower of dirty mugssomeone had raided the biscuit tin.
“Morning!” Emily chirped. “Id have washed up, but I wasnt sure where things go.”
“Ill do it,” Lucy said automatically.
Breakfast was chaos. James gulped coffee before work, David wolfed down toast, Emily fussed over the kids, and Lucy darted between them all, passing cereal, pouring juice.
“Lu, any Weetabix left?” Emily asked.
“Think so.”
“Yoghurt?”
“One pot.”
“I want yoghurt like at home!” Sophie whined.
“Theres only one, love,” Lucy explained.
“Then Ollie cant have any!”
“I want some too!” Oliver protested.
“Enough,” Emily cut in. “Youll have cereal.”
By the time the men left and the kids were parked in front of cartoons, Lucy felt like shed run a marathon. And this was only morning one.
“Emily,” Lucy asked pointedly, “dont you work?”
“I do, but remotely. Ill log on soon. The kids are quiet with telly.”
Lucy retreated to the bedroomher last refuge.
Ten minutes later:
“Auntie Lucy, Im thirsty.”
Half an hour after:
“Auntie Lucy, I need the loo.”
By lunch, working was impossible. The kids demanded snacks, the dog barked, Emily yammered on Zoom calls.
“Lu, whats for lunch?” Emily asked at one.
“No idea. What do you usually have?”
“Oh, well sort something. You got potatoes?”
“A few.”
“Meat?”
“Chicken in the freezer.”
“Perfect, well do roast chicken.”
Lucy noted Emily said “well” but made no move toward the cooker.
“Are *you* cooking?” Lucy clarified.
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Emily said distractedly. “Just need to finish this design. Maybe you could start, and Ill jump in?”
Lucy turned back to the stove without a word.
By evening, she was at her limit. Shed cooked, cleaned, walked the unsettled dog, and fielded endless questions. Her own work lay untouched.
When the men returned, the air was thick with tension.
“Hows it been?” James asked.
“Peachy,” Lucy said coolly.
At dinner, David updated their flat hunt:
“Saw two todayones a dive, the others extortionate. More viewings tomorrow.”
“Take your time,” James said generously. “Plenty of space here.”
Lucys fork clinked sharply against her plate. *Plenty of space?* In a two-bed with six people?
“Course, we wont overstay,” Emily said uncertainly.
“Stay as long as you need,” James insisted.
After dinner, while the others lounged with the telly, Lucy cornered James in the kitchen.
“We need to talk.”
“About?”
“This isnt working.”
“How?”
“The noise, the mess, me cooking and cleaning for an army…”
“Lu, its temporary. Shes my sister.”
“And Im your wife. Why am I the unpaid housekeeper?”
“Who else? Emily minds the kids, were at work.”
“I *work* too!”
“From home, though…”
“So that means free labour?”
James sighed. “Alright, Ill talk to Emily. Shell pitch in.”
“And David.”
“And David.”
But next day, nothing changed. Emily was “swamped,” the men “busy,” and Lucy remained trapped in domestic purgatory.
On day three, she snapped.
“Right,” Lucy announced at dinner. “Were setting up a rota. Im not the live-in chef.”
“Absolutely,” Emily agreed hastily. “Ill cook tomorrow.”
“And well share washing up,” Lucy added.
“Naturally,” David nodded.
Yet come morning, Emily had “a client emergency” and begged Lucy to cover. David left early, James was in meetings.
“Guess its me again,” Lucy muttered.
That evening, shed had enough.
“James, this stops now.”
“What does?”
“Ive become your familys skivvy. Cooking, cleaning, childcareall me.”
“Youre overreacting.”
“Am I? Who cooked breakfast?”
“Well… you.”
“Lunch?”
“You.”
“Dinner?”
James faltered.
“Who does *everything*?” Lucy pressed.
“Alright, its tough right now”
“*Tough?* Its exploitation!”
“Its only been a week!”
“Emily said yesterday the good listings wont appear for *months*.”
“So? A few months wont kill us.”
“Wont kill *you*! You swan off to work while Im run ragged!”
“Come on, youre home all day”
“*Stop.*” Lucys voice was lethally quiet. “I *work* from home. Or I would, if I werent your familys maid.”
James backtracked. “Okay, Ill talk to them properly.”
But the “talk” was all platitudesno real change.
Then came the final straw.
As Lucy cooked, James wandered in.
“Oh, forgot to sayOllie and Sophie start at the local school Monday. Well need early breakfasts.”
“Fine.”
“And packed lunches.”
“Right.”
“Emily says theyre low on clean uniforms. Maybe you could”
“Maybe *she* could.”
“She doesnt know our washer settings.”
“Then shell learn.”
James hesitated, then dropped the bomb:
“With more of us, youll need to cook bigger portions.”
Lucy slowly set down her knife.
“Say that again.”
“What?”
“About me cooking more.”
James paled. “I just meant… with everyone here…”
“Youll be cooking for my sisters family too,” he said firmlyand instantly regretted it.
Lucy untied her apron with deliberate calm.
“Where are you going?” James asked nervously.
“To pack.”
“Pack what?”
“Your things.”
She dragged a suitcase from the wardrobe and methodically filled it with James clothes.
Twenty minutes later, she deposited it in the lounge where the family sat glued to *EastEnders*.
“Change of plans,” Lucy announced. “Youre all staying at your mums in Surrey. Plenty of space there.”
“Lu, dont be daft!” James spluttered.
“Six people in two bedrooms is daft. Either we share chores equally, or you share Mums four-bed.”
An hour later, the car was packed.
At Surrey, James muma spry seventy-year-oldraised an eyebrow at the caravan on her doorstep.
“To what do I owe this honour?”
“Just visiting, Mum,” James mumbled.
Lucy handed over the suitcase. “Theyve some household logistics to work out.”
The older womans gaze flicked between them. “Ah. Well, come in then.”
As Lucy turned to leave, James grabbed her arm.
“This is mad. Lets talk at home.”
“Talks over. Come back with a fair rotasigned by allor dont come back at all.”
Next morning, Lucy woke blissfully late. She breakfasted in peace, worked uninterrupted, drank tea while it was still hot.
That evening, James called.
“Weve drawn up a schedule…”
“Email it. Ill decide tomorrow.”
They returned with a detailed rota: meals, cleaning, laundryall divided. Even the kids had chores.
For the first time, the flat ran smoothly. When Emily forgot her cooking day, Lucy pointed at the fridge where the schedule was pinned. When David “missed” the dishes, she reminded him.
A month later, they found a place in Wimbledon.
“Actually,” Emily confessed before leaving, “this was a blessing. Wed never have sorted ourselves out otherwise.”
On moving day, James pulled Lucy aside.
“About that night… I was a proper git.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Ill never pull that again.”
“See that you dont.”
When the door finally closed, James exhaled.
“Regret being so hard on them?”
“Not one bit,” Lucy said. “A family isnt a dictatorship. Its a partnership.”
And from then on, no one gave orders. Chores were shared. Compromises were made.
Because everyone remembered the night Lucy packed that suitcaseand proved that in a family, no one should ever be taken for granted.
And James? He never forgot his lesson: marriage isnt about commands. Its about respect.
