Too Many Mouths at the Table

‘Krzys, fetch the stool from the lounge, will you?’ Mum’s voice cut through the clatter of cutlery and the hiss of the kettle. I rolled my eyes so hard I thought they might stick, but I did as I was told. The kitchen was barely five metres long, and with all five of us crammed in—Mum, Dad, me, Ellie, and little Max—it felt like we were sardines in a tin. The table wobbled as I squeezed past, scraping my shin against the corner.

‘Careful, Krzysiu,’ Dad muttered, not looking up from his phone. He always called me Krzysiu when he wanted to sound affectionate, but it just made me feel like a child. I dumped the stool next to Max, who was already sniffling because Ellie had pinched his last fish finger.

‘Ellie, leave your brother alone,’ Mum snapped, her eyes darting between us like she was refereeing a boxing match. ‘Max, it’s only food. There’s plenty more.’

But there wasn’t. There never was. Not really. Mum tried to make it stretch—beans bulked out with water, bread that was more crust than crumb—but by Thursday it was always a bit of a gamble. I glanced at Dad, hoping he’d say something, but he just scrolled on, thumb flicking across the screen.

‘Can we not just eat in the lounge for once?’ I asked, voice tight. ‘There’s more space.’

Mum shot me a look. ‘We eat together at the table. That’s how families do it.’

I bit my tongue. That’s how families do it. Like we were some normal family from the telly, not five people squashed into a council flat with paper-thin walls and neighbours who shouted at each other through the night.

Ellie started humming under her breath, kicking her heels against the chair legs. Max wiped his nose on his sleeve and stared at his plate as if willing more food to appear. Mum dished out what was left—two sausages sliced into five uneven pieces, a puddle of instant mash, peas rolling everywhere.

‘Eat up,’ she said brightly. ‘Big day tomorrow.’

Dad finally looked up. ‘What’s tomorrow?’

Mum’s smile faltered. ‘Parents’ evening at Ellie’s school.’

He grunted and went back to his phone.

I watched Mum’s face tighten, her jaw clenching like she was biting back words. She always did that—swallowed her anger like it was something she could digest if she just tried hard enough.

‘Can I have more mash?’ Max piped up.

‘That’s all there is, love,’ Mum said softly.

Max’s lip trembled. Ellie rolled her eyes and shoved her plate away. ‘I’m not hungry anyway.’

‘Don’t waste food,’ Dad snapped.

‘There’s nothing to waste!’ Ellie shot back.

I felt the tension coil tighter around us, like an invisible rope pulling us closer and closer until someone snapped.

After dinner, Mum washed up in silence while Dad disappeared into the lounge to watch telly. Ellie stormed off to her room and slammed the door so hard the walls shook. Max curled up on the sofa with his battered teddy bear, thumb in his mouth.

I hovered in the kitchen doorway, watching Mum scrub at a pan like it had personally offended her.

‘You alright?’ I asked quietly.

She didn’t look at me. ‘Fine.’

‘You’re not.’

She turned then, eyes red-rimmed but fierce. ‘What do you want me to say, Krzys? That I’m tired? That I’m scared every time I check my bank balance? That I wish your dad would help out more instead of pretending everything’s fine?’

I swallowed hard. ‘You could say any of that.’

She shook her head. ‘You’re seventeen. You shouldn’t have to worry about this stuff.’

But I did worry. All the time. About money, about Max getting bullied at school for wearing hand-me-downs, about Ellie going off the rails because no one had time to notice what she was up to.

That night, after everyone else had gone to bed, I sat at the kitchen table staring at my phone. My mate Callum had messaged earlier—something about a party on Saturday—but I couldn’t think about anything except Mum’s face when she thought no one was looking.

I heard voices from the lounge—Mum and Dad arguing in low, urgent whispers.

‘We can’t keep going like this,’ Mum said.

‘What do you want me to do? Magic money out of thin air?’ Dad hissed back.

‘You could look for more work.’

‘I’m already doing overtime at the warehouse! What more do you want from me?’

‘To be here! To help! The kids need you.’

A pause. Then Dad’s voice, quieter: ‘I need you too.’

I pressed my hands over my ears. I didn’t want to hear any more.

The next morning was grey and drizzly—the kind of Yorkshire weather that seeps into your bones and makes everything feel heavier. Mum packed our lunches—jam sandwiches and a bruised apple each—and kissed us goodbye at the door.

At school, I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept drifting back to last night: Mum’s tears, Dad’s anger, Max’s hungry eyes.

At lunch, Callum nudged me. ‘You alright? You look rough.’

I shrugged. ‘Didn’t sleep much.’

He grinned. ‘You coming Saturday or what?’

I hesitated. The idea of escaping for one night was tempting—just music and laughter and forgetting—but then I thought of Mum alone with Ellie and Max.

‘I’ll let you know,’ I said.

When I got home that evening, Mum was sitting at the table with a pile of bills spread out in front of her. She looked up as I came in, eyes tired but determined.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe it’s time we asked your gran for help.’

I stared at her. Gran lived across town in a tiny bungalow filled with porcelain cats and memories of better days. She and Mum hadn’t spoken properly since Grandad died—some old argument about inheritance that no one ever explained to us kids.

‘Will she help?’ I asked.

Mum shrugged. ‘She might. Or she might slam the door in my face.’

I sat down beside her and took her hand. ‘It’s worth a try.’

That weekend, we all piled into Dad’s battered Fiesta and drove to Gran’s house. The silence in the car was thick enough to choke on.

Gran opened the door with a frown but let us in anyway. Her house smelled of lavender and boiled cabbage.

Mum stood awkwardly in the hallway, twisting her wedding ring around her finger.

‘I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye,’ she began.

Gran cut her off with a sigh. ‘Sit down before you faint, love.’

We sat around Gran’s kitchen table—a proper wooden one with room for everyone—and for the first time in ages, there was enough food for seconds.

Afterwards, while Ellie and Max played in the garden, Gran took Mum aside. Their voices drifted through the open window—soft at first, then rising as old wounds reopened.

‘You never forgave me for selling Dad’s watch,’ Gran said bitterly.

‘We needed that money!’ Mum snapped back.

‘And now you need more.’

‘I’m not asking for myself—I’m asking for my kids.’

A long silence followed. Then Gran sighed again—a sound full of years and regrets.

‘I’ll help,’ she said quietly. ‘But you have to let go of the past.’

Mum nodded, tears streaming down her face.

On the drive home, there was a strange sense of relief—a weight lifted, if only slightly. We still had too many mouths for too little food, too many problems for too few solutions—but for once it felt like maybe we could face them together.

That night, as I lay in bed listening to the rain against the window, I wondered if every family felt like this—held together by love and resentment and hope all tangled up together.

Do we ever really escape where we come from? Or do we just learn to live with it—and each other?