The Embers of Retribution in the Quiet House
Dusk settled over the sleepy village of Heatherbrook, wrapping the streets in a soft, grey hush. Peter returned home from work, weary but content. In the hallway, his wife, Eleanor, greeted him with a warm smile and the rich scent of freshly fried sausages.
“Hello, love. Fancy some supper? I’ve done the sausages,” she said, smoothing her apron.
“Of course,” Peter replied, kicking off his shoes. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them carelessly onto the side table.
Eleanor’s sharp eyes caught the unfamiliar keys. She squinted.
“What are these, then?”
“Mum’s gone to the seaside for three weeks,” Peter explained, rubbing his neck. “She asked us to keep an eye on her place. Left the keys.”
Suddenly, Eleanor’s eyes gleamed with mischief—almost ominous. She clapped her hands together.
“At last! I’ll do it!”
Peter froze, baffled. His wife—usually so composed—looked as if she’d hatched some grand scheme.
“Do what?” he asked, unease creeping into his voice.
Eleanor only smiled cryptically, but the determination in her gaze sent a chill down his spine.
Weeks earlier, their lives had been turned upside down. Returning home from a visit to Eleanor’s parents, they found their flat utterly transformed. The tasteful wallpaper they’d chosen with such care had been replaced with garish florals, loud enough to hurt the eyes. The furniture in the lounge and bedroom had been rearranged—the wardrobe now stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, the bed shifted to face the window, ruining the cosy harmony.
“What on earth—?” Eleanor dropped her bag in shock.
Peter peered over her shoulder, struggling to process the chaos. Horror coiled in his chest.
“Who did this?” Eleanor’s hands trembled with fury. “This isn’t our home!”
“Calm down,” Peter said, gripping her shoulders. “We’ll sort it.”
But the more they inspected, the worse it got. The sofa had been shoved by the window, the telly exiled to a corner. The dresser now blocked where the mirror once hung. The culprit was undeniable—Peter’s mother, Margaret Henshaw.
A month earlier, Margaret had descended upon their flat like an interior design inspector. From the doorstep, she’d critiqued everything—the wallpaper, the furniture placement.
“These walls are dreary as a care home!” she’d declared. “You need something cheerful! And this furniture—the wardrobe shouldn’t be in the middle of the lounge! The bed’s all wrong!”
Eleanor had bitten her tongue, and Peter had silenced her with a look. Arguing was pointless. Margaret could lecture for hours on the “right” way to live.
When they’d had to travel for Eleanor’s mother’s birthday, their cat, Whiskers, needed looking after. Peter suggested asking Margaret.
“Give her the keys?” Eleanor had protested. “She’ll redecorate again!”
But they had no choice. Reluctantly, Eleanor left strict instructions—food, water, toys. She called daily. Margaret’s replies were curt: “Everything’s fine.” It should’ve been a warning.
Returning home, they realised Margaret hadn’t just fed the cat—she’d staged a coup.
“What do we do now?” Eleanor sighed, staring at the floral nightmare.
“We’ll put it back. Repaper the walls. Cost a bit, but…” Peter rubbed his temples. “Should I ring her?”
Eleanor wiped her eyes—then smirked.
“No need. I’ve got a better idea. Your mum’s off to the seaside soon, isn’t she?”
Peter nodded, puzzled. Eleanor winked.
When Margaret left for her holiday, handing Peter her keys, Eleanor’s excitement was electric.
“Finally! She’ll see how it feels!”
Peter, though hesitant, agreed. Margaret deserved a taste of her own medicine.
For three weekends, they worked. Calm, pastel wallpaper replaced Margaret’s gaudy prints. The wardrobe migrated to the hall. They even added “modern” touches—just to infuriate her.
Margaret’s return was priceless. She stood frozen in the doorway.
“What have you done?!” she screeched into the phone. “Where’s my floral paper? Who moved my things?”
Peter stayed calm.
“Thought your place needed soothing colours. At your age, restful tones are best.”
“This isn’t funny! Change it back!”
“Why? You did the same to us.”
Silence. Margaret seemed to grasp, for the first time, the consequences of her meddling.
“It’s not the same! I was helping!”
“Our home, our rules,” Peter said firmly. “Next time, your sofa might end up in the garden.”
Margaret went quiet. The lesson stuck. She never interfered again.
Eleanor, triumphant, finally felt their home was truly theirs.
