The Sparks of Retribution in a Quiet Home
Evening settled over the small town of Heatherbrook, draping the streets in a soft twilight. Paul returned home from work, tired but content. In the hallway, his wife, Emma, greeted him with a warm smile and the aroma of freshly made meat pies.
“Hello, love. Fancy some dinner? I’ve made meat pies,” she said, straightening her apron.
“Absolutely,” Paul replied, kicking off his shoes. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and carelessly tossed them onto the side table.
Emma spotted unfamiliar keys and squinted.
“What are these for?”
“Mum’s gone to a health retreat for three weeks,” Paul explained, rubbing his neck. “She asked me to keep an eye on her flat and left the keys.”
Suddenly, Emma’s eyes gleamed with mischief—almost ominous. She clapped her hands together and exclaimed,
“Finally! I’m going to do it!”
Paul froze, baffled. His wife, usually so calm and composed, looked as if she’d hatched some grand scheme.
“What are you on about? Do what?” he asked, his unease growing.
Emma only gave him a mysterious smile, but the resolve in her eyes sent a chill down his spine.
A few weeks earlier, their lives had been turned upside down. After returning from a week-long trip to visit Emma’s parents, they found their flat unrecognisable. The wallpaper in the hallway, which they’d lovingly chosen, had been replaced with garish floral patterns. The furniture in the living room and bedroom was rearranged—the wardrobe stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, and their bed now faced the window, ruining the cosy flow.
“What on earth?” Emma gasped, dropping her bag in shock the moment she stepped inside.
Paul peered over her shoulder, struggling to take it all in. His chest tightened with dread.
“Who did this?” Emma’s voice trembled with fury. “This isn’t our home!”
“Easy now,” Paul said, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Let’s figure this out.”
But the more they inspected, the worse it got. The sofa had been shoved by the window, the telly moved to the far corner. The dresser in the bedroom had been wedged where the mirror once hung. This was deliberate chaos—and the culprit was obvious: Paul’s mother, Margaret.
A month earlier, Margaret had made an inspection visit. From the moment she walked in, she criticised everything—the “dull” wallpaper, the furniture arrangement.
“These walls look like a retirement home!” she’d scoffed, shaking her head. “You need something lively, something cheerful!”
“We like it as it is,” Emma said, keeping her voice even.
“Nonsense! No wonder you’re always on edge with colours like this,” Margaret pressed on, ignoring objections. “And this furniture is all wrong—wardrobe in the middle of the room? The bed facing the wrong way? Ridiculous!”
Emma opened her mouth to argue, but Paul caught her eye. Arguing with his mother was futile. Margaret could lecture for hours on how to “properly” arrange their lives. She left eventually, leaving behind a cloud of tension. Paul and Emma sighed in relief, hoping that was the end of it.
But then they had to leave town for Emma’s mother’s birthday. Their cat, Oliver, couldn’t be left alone, so Paul suggested asking Margaret to look after him. Emma was adamantly against it.
“You want to give her keys? She’ll start bossing us around again!”
But they had no choice—no one else could take Oliver. Reluctantly, Emma agreed, giving strict instructions about feeding times and toy locations. Every day, she called to check in, but Margaret just said, “All fine,” and hurried off the phone. That should’ve been a warning.
Back home, they realised Margaret hadn’t just fed the cat—she’d staged a full-blown home invasion.
“What do we do now?” Emma sighed, staring at the hideous wallpaper and misplaced furniture.
“We’ll put things back, redo the wallpaper,” Paul said. “It’ll cost time and money. Should I ring Mum and give her a piece of my mind?”
Emma wiped her eyes, then suddenly smirked.
“No need,” she said, her voice firm. “I’ve got a better idea. Isn’t your mum going to that health retreat soon?”
Paul nodded, still unsure where this was going. Emma just winked—her plan was taking shape.
When Margaret left for her retreat, handing Paul her spare keys, Emma lit up with anticipation. She jingled the keys triumphantly.
“Finally—she’s going to learn how it feels!”
Though hesitant, Paul agreed to back her. Margaret deserved this.
For three weekends, they worked in Margaret’s flat while she was away. Emma swapped the gaudy floral wallpaper for soft pastel stripes—the exact opposite of Margaret’s taste. Paul helped rearrange furniture: the wardrobe moved to the hall, shelves replaced with more “suitable” ones. They even added a few décor pieces Emma insisted would “brighten the place up.”
When Margaret returned, she stood frozen in the doorway.
“What have you done?!” she shrieked, dialling frantically. “Where’s my wallpaper? Why is this ghastly green everywhere? Who said you could—?”
Paul cut in calmly.
“We thought your décor was too loud. At your age, something peaceful is better for the eyes.”
“Is this a joke?!” Margaret fumed. “You had no right! I trusted you with my keys, and you— Why is the wardrobe here? And these hideous shelves? Fix it. Now!”
“We’re not done yet,” Paul said. “Tell me—why did you think we’d like what you did to our place?”
Silence. For the first time, Margaret seemed to grasp the consequences of her meddling.
“That’s different! I was trying to help!”
“Right. And this tacky mess is helping you?” Paul replied. “Our home, our rules. Next time, your sofa might end up on the balcony.”
Margaret went quiet, stunned. The lesson stuck. After that, she never interfered again—avoiding any talk of décor or rearrangements. And Emma, victorious at last, knew their home was truly theirs again.
