When Two Strong Personalities Collide…
Jennifer returned home late. She pushed open the door and froze in surprise—the flat was eerily quiet. No husband, no mother. Paul, her husband, should have been there. So should Margaret, her mum, who’d announced just that morning she was staying “for a little week.”
“Mum? Paul?” she called out sharply.
Silence. Her pulse quickened as she glanced around, straining to hear any sign of them.
“He’s probably in the workshop,” she reasoned, snatching her coat. “But where’s Mum?”
Outside, the garage—where Paul usually restored old armchairs or repainted dressers—glowed with warm amber light. Muffled voices drifted from the cracked door.
Jennifer stopped dead in the doorway, disbelief knotting her chest.
“Honestly, Paul, don’t be childish!” Her mother’s voice, crisp and commanding. “Two weeks is nothing! I’m your mother-in-law, not some nosy neighbour!”
“That’s the problem,” Paul muttered, tugging at his collar. “Living with you’s the issue.”
He slumped onto a stool, staring out at the drizzle streaking the window. The flat in Croydon had felt like a sanctuary—until Hurricane Mum had blown in.
He’d suggested a hotel. Jennifer had recoiled.
“And let the whole family gossip about me throwing my own mother out?”
The doorbell sliced through the tension.
“It’s her,” Paul exhaled. “Please, no more lectures…”
Margaret swept in like a storm—expensive perfume, assessing eyes, a smile that didn’t quite reach them. Within minutes, she’d scorned the scuffed coat rack, accused Paul of domestic apathy, and declared it time to “sort the young ones’ lives out.”
One week became a gauntlet: furniture shoved aside, rows over mismatched cutlery, militant reorganising of cupboards. Then—the final straw. His files. Years of records, suddenly “clutter.”
“I binned those old folders,” she said airily.
“What?” Paul went pale. “Those were important!”
“Don’t fuss. It’s all tidy now,” she beamed.
He stormed out without another word. Jennifer fled to work, summoned urgently—but her mind stayed behind. What were they doing now? Please, not another fight…
That evening, the flat was empty again. She ran to the garage.
And stopped.
There they were—Paul and her mother, sleeves rolled up, bent over an antique mirror. Paul demonstrated refinishing techniques; Margaret, smudged with varnish, dabbed carefully with a brush.
“You’ve got a real gift, love,” Margaret murmured, eyes bright. “Hands like yours—rare.”
“And you’re not just a critic, you’ve got an eye for this!” Paul grinned.
They laughed. Margaret unpacked scones; Paul poured tea. Jennifer watched, heart swelling, as the two people she loved most found common ground in sawdust and shellac.
“Come to my cottage this summer,” Margaret offered. “The barn’s full of pieces needing work.”
“Done!” Paul wiped his hands, grinning. “But let’s tackle another mirror first.”
Jennifer perched on the workbench, warmth flooding her.
Sometimes happiness hides where you least expect—like a dusty garage. Where there’s wood, stubborn stains, a whistling kettle, and finally—peace.
