Emma pushed open the front door of her flat with her shoulder, clutching little Alfie tightly in his swaddle. The October wind had somehow wormed its way under her coat, and now all she wanted was warmth, quiet, and peace.
The maternity ward was behind her, and ahead lay homethe flat shed inherited from her grandmother and put in her name before the wedding. Every crack in the ceiling, every creaky floorboard was familiar. This was where she was supposed to feel safe.
James barged in first, kicked off his shoes, and dumped his coat on the hallway floor. Emma stepped insideand froze. Something was off. The air smelled strangenot of her perfume, not of her hand cream. A floral scent lingered, mixed with something sharp and unfamiliar.
“Come on, dont just stand there,” James called over his shoulder without looking back.
Emma slipped off her shoes and walked slowly down the hallway. The living room was dim, an unfamiliar embroidered cushion on the sofa. A vase of plastic roses sat on the coffee tabledefinitely not there a week ago.
In the kitchen, clattering greeted her. At the stove stood Margarether mother-in-lawin an apron, enthusiastically stirring something in a pot. Her hair was perfectly styled, pearls around her neck, lipstick freshly appliedas if preparing for guests, not welcoming her daughter-in-law home from hospital.
“Ah, Emma! Finally!” Margaret chirped, not leaving the stove. “Lets see the baby then! Bring him here!”
Emma instinctively stepped forwardbut her gaze snagged on something by the opposite wall. Next to the old fridge, which had stood there for years, was a second onegleaming silver, factory stickers still on the handles.
“Where did that come from?” Emma asked, bewildered.
Margaret turned, wiped her hands on her apron, and smiled as if shed just pulled off a delightful surprise.
“We bought it! James came with uspicked out a nice big one. Finally, some order in the kitchen. Proper meals are important, especially with a baby. You understand, dont you?”
“With *us*?” Emma blinked. “Whos *us*?”
“Me, of course!” Margaret clicked her wooden spoon against the pot. “Ill be staying to help. I thought James had told you.”
The blood drained from Emmas face. Alfie whimpered in her arms, and she instinctively held him tighter.
“James?” she called toward the door.
Her husband walked in, two grocery bags in hand. He looked exhausted, his gaze distant.
“What?”
“Your mum says shes moving in?”
James nodded as if shed just asked if they were out of milk.
“Course. Youll need help. She agreed to stay for a bit while you recover.”
“A *bit*?” Emma frowned. “And the fridge?”
“Oh, that.” James set the bags down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Mum bought it so her food stays separate. Shes on a special diet.”
“Special diet.” Emma repeated slowly. “*In my flat*.”
“Em, dont start. Im knackered. Mums just trying to help, and youre already kicking off.”
Margaret confidently opened the new fridge and started unpacking the groceriesyoghurts, cottage cheese, labelled jars, tins of vegetables.
“See?” She shut the door. “Now everyones got their own space. No more arguments.”
Emma wanted to say something, but Alfie started cryingloud, demanding. He needed feeding, changing, settling. Her head throbbed with exhaustion. Every question could wait.
“Go on, feed him,” Margaret shooed. “Ill tidy up in here.”
Emma walked out, shoulders slumped, and retreated to the bedroom. Even there, things had changed. The dresser held unfamiliar itemshand cream, perfume, a hairbrush. A fluffy bathrobe was slung over the chairclearly not hers.
“James?” she called softly, sitting on the bed.
He appeared in the doorway.
“What now?”
“Why are your mums things in our bedroom?”
“Shes sleeping on the sofa, but she put her stuff here so its not in the way. Whats the big deal?”
“The big deal is this is *my* flat.”
James sighed like she was making a fuss over nothing.
“Emma, drop it. Mums here to help, and youre picking fights over every little thing. Would you rather handle the baby alone?”
Emma stayed silent. Alfie suckled, his tiny nose twitching, while her thoughts spiralled. How had this happened? Shed left *her* home, just her and James, and returned to what? A shared house with separate fridges and unspoken rules?
When Alfie was fed and asleep, she carefully placed him in the crib by the window. It was time to figure things out. She returned to the kitchen.
Margaret sat at the table, flipping through a magazine, a cup of tea in hand.
“Asleep already? Good. Babies need routine from day one.”
Emma walked to the old fridge and opened it. Nearly emptya bottle of milk, a scrap of cheese, a few eggs. Everything else was gone.
“Margaret, wheres the food?”
“What food, love?”
“The food that was in here. Chicken, vegetables, juice.”
“Oh, *those*.” Margaret sipped her tea. “I binned them. They smelled off. Didnt want you getting food poisoning.”
Emma went rigid.
“You *threw away* my food?”
“Em, dont shout,” James cut in, stepping into the room. “Mum was being careful.”
“Im not shouting,” Emma said, voice ice-cold. “Im asking. Margaret, did you even *check* the dates?”
“Why would I? I trust my nose. Mothers instinct.” She smiled.
Emma shut the fridge and turned to James.
“Can we talk? Alone?”
He sighed but followed her to the bedroom. She left the door ajar so Alfie wouldnt wake.
“Explain whats happening,” she said quietly. “I left for a week, and now your mums acting like she *owns* the place.”
“Shes not *running* things. Shes helping.”
“Helping?” Emma crossed her arms. “By throwing out my food, bringing her own fridge, scattering her stuff everywhere? *Thats* helping?”
“Emma, Mum means well. You *said* itd be hard with the baby. I found a solution.”
“A *solution*?” Emma leaned against the dresser. “James, did you even *ask* me?”
“When was I supposed to? You were in hospital, your phone died. Mum offered, I said yes.”
“She offered to move into *my* flat and bring her own *fridge*?” Emma couldnt believe her ears.
“It wasnt like that.” James looked away. “Shes had issues with her neighbours. Constant drilling. Then you had the baby, so I thoughtwhy not? Two birds, one stone.”
“Two birds.” Emmas voice was flat. “So your mum escapes her noisy neighbours *and* gets to run our lives. Is that it?”
“Since when is this *controlling*?” Jamess voice rose. “Youre overreacting! Shes *helping*, and youre acting like shes some villain!”
Alfie stirred and whimpered. Emma picked him up, rocking him gently.
“James, lets be clear,” she said calmly. “Your mum can visit, help during the day. But moving in? No. This is *my* flat. *I* decide who lives here.”
“Youve got every right,” James said stiffly. “And what about *me*? Just a side noteIm your *husband*.”
“You *are*. But you dont *own* this place. The flats in my name. So is the fridge. I dont need a second one.”
James clenched his fists.
“So thats your trump card? *Your* flat, *your* rules?”
“Just stating facts.”
“*Facts*.” He sneered. “Fine. Lets talk facts. Who pays the bills? Who buys the food? Who sorted the renovation last year?”
“We did it *together*,” Emma said.
“Together?” James stepped closer. “Em, you were part-time. I was working like a dog. Still am. And now youre on maternity leave, making demands.”
Emma pressed her lips together. His words stung, but she wouldnt back down.
“Fine. Ill go back to work in a month. *You* stay home with Alfie.”
James scoffed.
“Seriously? Whod hire you straight after maternity leave?”
“They will. Im good at my job.”
“*Good at your job*,” he mocked. “Right. Mum stays. End of.”
James turned on his heel and slammed the door so hard the walls shook. Alfie startled and wailed. Emma held him close, humming a lullaby her own grandmother had taught her
