Breaking Point

She hoped her children would start to compromise soon, or they were in for a distinctly frosty festive season

- Bailey Morgan

In the usually tranquil lounge, I sat with my arms crossed, my crutches leaning against the sofa, as battle raged.

‘You are not cooking Christmas dinner, Zac!’ my daughter Sophie yelled, aiming a cushion at my son. ‘You couldn’t even cook a fish finger.’

‘Are you talking about yourself again?’ he retorted.

The cushion brushed across the streamers hanging from the ceiling. ‘Mind the tree!’ I warned, as its passing set some of the baubles swinging. The cushion landed with a thud in the corner.

I could hardly believe my children were both intelligent, successful young people, now at university. They’d started acting like 12-year-olds ever since they arrived home for the holidays. I struggled to my feet, leaning my weight onto my crutches. ‘You need to stop this nonsense right now.’

‘What nonsense?’ Zac looks so much like his late father, all blue eyes and blond hair.

‘Yes, what nonsense?’ Sophie looks like me – dark hair and brown eyes.

I glanced around the room. Is it possible to over-do the decorations? My children had tried, plus the task had gained something of a competitive edge this year.

Even the hall looked like Santa’s grotto. Then they’d moved on to the cooking – who had the best stuffing recipe, Delia Smith or Jamie Oliver? Who ought to be in charge of the bird on the big day..?

Zac put on his jacket. Luckily, he was off out with some school friends tonight. He smiled at me before planting a kiss on my cheek. ‘See you later, Mum. Don’t do too much on your ankle.’