**Diary Entry – 12th June**
*”Mum, we’re… busy!”* John shouted as his mother barged in unannounced. The next day, she was in for a surprise.
Honestly, who hasn’t been there? Right after our wedding, my husband—sweet, simple man that he is—solemnly handed his mother, Margaret, a key to our flat. *”For emergencies,”* he said with mock seriousness. Oh, sure. Those *”emergencies”* turned out to be her dropping by three times a week.
Picture this: you’re at home, relaxed, in your worn-out dressing gown, face mask on. Then—*click, scrape*—the key in the lock. My heart would sink every time.
In storms Margaret, full of energy, ready to inspect. *”Goodness, is that dust on the sideboard?”* *”Emily, this soup is far too salty!”* *”Why haven’t the curtains been pressed?”* More like a health and safety inspector than a mother-in-law.
At first, I bit my tongue. I hinted to John—*darling, isn’t this a bit much?* But he’d just wave me off: *”Oh, come on, it’s Mum. She means well.”* That *”meaning well”* nearly drove me round the bend.
Last Friday was the final straw. John came home exhausted, so I decided to surprise him—you know, spice things up. Made his favourite lasagne, bought a nice bottle of wine. Dressed up like it was our first date—lace lingerie that had been buried in the drawer for years, candles lit. You get the idea.
We’re there, half-lit, sipping wine, John’s relaxed, whispering sweet nothings… and then—*click, scrape*—the bloody key in the lock. I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. The door swings open, and there’s Margaret, holding a bag of potatoes. *”Oh, loves, I’ve brought you some potatoes from the allotment! Why are you sitting in the—oh!”* She freezes, staring at me in my *very* revealing attire.
John, red as a beetroot, leaps up and yells: *”Mum, we’re… busy!”*
Without missing a beat, she replies: *”So what? I’m family! Where do you want the potatoes?”*
I mean, honestly! The evening was ruined. I bolted to the bedroom, threw on the nearest dressing gown, and didn’t come out for the rest of the night. When she finally left, I gave John an earful—years of pent-up frustration about the dust, the soup, and now *this*.
*”This isn’t normal!”* I shouted. *”This is our home, our private space!”*
And what does he do? Blinks like a confused owl and mumbles: *”Em, don’t overreact. It’s just Mum. She didn’t mean any harm…”*
That’s when it hit me. Words wouldn’t fix this. If he wouldn’t set boundaries, I would. So I made a plan.
Next morning, while John was still asleep, I called a locksmith. By 10 AM, a polite young man had replaced the lock—done in 15 minutes flat.
At dinner, I slid a single new key across the table. John frowned. *”What’s this?”*
*”Your new key, love,”* I said sweetly. *”The only one.”*
*”Where’s the other one? For Mum?”*
*”There isn’t one.”* I smiled. *”Just for us.”*
The look on his face—like I’d announced we were moving to the moon. He spluttered about *”taking matters into your own hands,”* but I cut him off. *”Just wait. The show’s about to start.”*
Right on cue, at 8 PM—*scrape, scrape*—then silence. A moment later, an insistent knock.
I looked at John. *”Go on. Mum’s here.”*
Margaret stood on the doorstep, holding a bag of scones, utterly baffled. John stammered some excuse while I stood there, finally feeling like the rightful mistress of my own home.
Tell me honestly—was I out of line? Or is a new lock the only way to teach some people about boundaries?
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