**Diary Entry 12th October**
I came home from the hospital with our newborn, still aching and exhausted, only to find a second fridge standing in the kitchen. “This ones mine and Mums. Dont put your food in it,” my husband, James, informed me flatly, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
The autumn wind had nipped at me all the way from the car, sneaking under my coat, and all Id wanted was warmth, quiet, and the safe familiarity of home. This was the flat Id inherited from my grandmother, the one Id made sure was in my name before we married. Every crack in the ceiling, every creak of the floorboards was known to me. Yet stepping inside, something felt off. The air smelled wrongnot of my perfume or hand cream, but of some floral, unfamiliar scent, mixed with something sharp.
James barged in first, kicking off his shoes and tossing his coat onto the hallway floor. I hesitated. The living room was dim, an unfamiliar embroidered cushion on the sofa, a vase of fake roses on the coffee tablethings that hadnt been there a week ago.
Then came the clatter from the kitchen. There stood Margaret, my mother-in-law, in an apron, stirring something on the stove. Her hair was perfectly curled, pearls around her neck, lipstick freshly appliedas if she were hosting guests, not welcoming her daughter-in-law home with a newborn.
“Ah, Emma! Finally!” she chirped without looking up. “Let me see the baby. Come on, bring him here!”
I stepped forward, but my eyes caught on something by the walla hulking, silver fridge, still wrapped in plastic, standing beside our old one.
“Where did this come from?” I asked, bewildered.
Margaret turned, wiping her hands on her apron with a smile. “We bought it! James came with me. Plenty of space nowproper organisation. Especially with a baby. You understand, dont you?”
“We?” I echoed. “Whos ‘we’?”
“Why, me, of course!” she said, tapping the wooden spoon against the pan. “Im staying to help. Didnt James tell you?”
The blood drained from my face. Little Oliver stirred in my arms, and I held him tighter.
“James?” I called out.
He walked in, grocery bags in hand, his expression weary. “What?”
“Your mother says shes moving in.”
He shrugged, as if Id asked whether we needed milk. “Yeah. Youll need the help. Mum agreed to stay awhile, till youre back on your feet.”
“Awhile?” My stomach twisted. “And the fridge?”
“Oh, that.” He rubbed his nose. “Mum got it so her foods separate. Shes on a special diet.”
“A special diet,” I repeated slowly. “In my flat.”
“Emma, dont start. Im knackered. Mums only trying to help, and youre already making a fuss.”
Margaret swung open the new fridge, proudly unpacking yogurt, cottage cheese, labelled jars, prepped vegetables. “See?” she said, shutting the door. “Now everyones got their own space. No more arguments.”
I wanted to protest, but Oliver began to cryloud, demanding. He needed feeding, changing, soothing. My head throbbed with exhaustion. There was no energy left to fight.
“Go on, feed him,” Margaret dismissed. “Ill sort things here.”
I retreated to the bedroom. Even there, her presence had crept ina tube of hand cream, a bottle of perfume, a hairbrush on the dresser. A bathrobe draped over the chair.
“James,” I said quietly, sitting on the bed.
He appeared in the doorway. “What now?”
“Why are your mothers things in our room?”
“Shes sleeping on the sofa, but she didnt want her stuff cluttering the hallway. Whats the big deal?”
“The big deal is this is my home.”
He sighed like I was being unreasonable. “Mums here to help, and youre picking fights over nothing. Would you rather struggle alone?”
I didnt answer. Oliver latched on, his tiny breaths steady. My thoughts churned. Id left for the hospital from my own homemine and Jamessand returned to what? A shared house with territorial fridge rules?
When Oliver finally slept, I tiptoed back to the kitchen. Margaret sat at the table, sipping tea, flipping through a magazine.
“All settled? Routines important from day one,” she said.
I opened the old fridge. Nearly emptyjust milk, a bit of cheese, a few eggs.
“Margaret, wheres the food?”
“What food, love?”
“The chicken, the veg, the juices. They were here.”
“Oh, those.” She took a sip. “I binned them. Theyd gone off. Smelled funny. Didnt want you getting ill.”
I froze. “You threw out my food?”
“Emma, dont shout,” James cut in. “Mum did the right thing. Better safe than sorry.”
“Im not shouting. Im askingdid you even check the dates?”
Margaret waved a hand. “I know when foods bad. Mothers instinct.”
I shut the fridge. “James. We need to talk.”
In the bedroom, Oliver slept soundly. I kept my voice low. “Explain whats happening. I was gone a week, and your mothers acting like she owns the place.”
“Shes not in charge,” he said defensively. “Shes helping.”
“Helping? She threw out my food, brought her own fridge, scattered her things everywhere. Thats not helpthats a takeover.”
“Christ, Emma, shes trying! You said yourself itd be hard with the baby. I found a solution.”
“A solution? Did you even ask me?”
“When was I supposed to? You were in hospital, your phone died. Mum offered, and I said yes.”
“Offered to move into my flat? With her own fridge?”
He looked away. “Shes had trouble with her neighbours. Drilling, noise. Then you had the baby, so two birds, one stone.”
My grip on Oliver tightened. “So your mum fixes her problem and gets to control us. Brilliant.”
“Control? Youre paranoid. Shes helping, and youre being ungrateful.”
Oliver fussed. I rocked him, swallowing my anger. “James, heres how this works. Your mum can visit, help during the day. But living here? No. This is my home. I decide who stays.”
“Oh, so thats how it is?” His jaw clenched. “Your flat, your rules? Just because its in your name?”
“Yes.”
He scoffed. “Fine. Then lets talk facts. Who pays the bills? Who buys the food? Who sorted the renovation last year?”
“We did it together.”
“Together?” He stepped closer. “You were part-time, Emma. I worked my arse off. Still do. Now youre on maternity leave, making demands.”
I clenched my teeth. “Then Ill go back to work in a month. You stay home with Oliver.”
He barked a laugh. “Seriously? Whod take you back so soon?”
“They will. Im good at my job.”
“Right. Well, Mum stays. End of.”
He stormed out, slamming the door. Oliver startled awake, wailing. I held him close, humming the lullaby my own grandmother had taught me.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of sizzling bacon. Margaret was already cooking, the smell heavy in the air.
“Could you cook later?” I asked. “The smells wake Oliver.”
She turned, wooden spoon mid-air. “James leaves for work at eight. He needs breakfast.”
“He can heat it up.”
She switched off the hob. “You want my son to eat leftovers? What kind of mother would I be?”
“Im just asking”
“I get it,” she snapped. “My schedule doesnt matter. Only yours.”
James shuffled in, groggy. “Whats the noise?”
“Your wife doesnt like me cooking,” Margaret said tearfully.
“Emma, stop causing trouble.”
I bit back my words. There was no winning this.
By afternoon, I found my fridge stuffed with Margarets food.
“Please keep your things in your fridge,” I said firmly.
Her eyes widened. “After all Ive done, this is how you treat me?”
James called later, furious. “Mums in tears! Youre kicking her out?”
“Im setting boundaries.”
“Boundaries? Christ, Emma, family doesnt work like that!”
That night, I sat at the kitchen table, staring into cold tea. Enough. The next day, I called a solicitor.
“The flats in your name,” she said. “You decide who stays.”
When James came for his things, we finally talked properly.
