Dear Diary,
This morning I watched my motherinlaw march into our flat with a determined look, already scheming to remodel the kitchen while I was at work.
James, please make sure she doesnt start playing interior designer on our kitchen, I begged, clutching the strap of my handbag as we stood in the hallway. You know how much that renovation cost me and how Ive agonised over every surface finish.
James, nursing his last sip of coffee, waved his hand amiably. Emily, why are you getting so worked up? Mums only here for a week while the plumbers sort out the burst pipe back home. She isnt our enemy. Shell just make a pot of soup for usso you wont have to stand over the stove in the evenings.
Soup would be lovely, I replied, but please keep her from improving the space. Remember how, in our old flat, she thought the plain white wall was boring and stuck a dolphinborder along the hallway? I spent a whole week scraping off the glue.
James chuckled. Leave the past where it belongs. Mum just wants to make herself at home. Hurry up, youll be late. Im working from the house today; everythings under control.
I exhaled heavily, kissed James on the cheek, and headed out. My heart thudded. That kitchen was my sanctuary, my pride, the place where I could feel a sense of power. For three months I and the designer had agonised over the shade of the cabinetsdeep, matte charcoal. A natural stone countertop, sleek lines, hidden hardware. No superfluous jars, no magnetic poetry on the fridge, no gaudy towels. Minimalism had cost a small fortune, and every scratch on the surface felt like a personal wound.
Yesterday evening, Margaret, my motherinlaw, arrived with her usual flair and an unwavering opinion on aesthetics. She swept the flat with a critical eye and declared, Your place looks like a hospitalspotlessly clean but theres nothing to look at. I kept quiet, chalking it up to travel fatigue.
The workday dragged on. I kept reaching for my phone to call James, but I reminded myself that he was a grown man and had promised to keep an eye on things. Besides, I had an important report to finish; indulging in domestic paranoia would be unprofessional.
At lunch, I finally gave in and dialled James.
Hows Mum? I asked.
Fine, he replied, a little too cheerfully. Mums er tinkering a bit. Shes baked a pie. The smell is drifting through the whole building!
A pie? I frowned. Did she turn on the oven? Did she mess with the touch panel? Theres a safety lock on it!
Shes sorted it, shes brilliant, James said, his voice hurried. Ive got a Zoom meeting nowtalk later, love. Bye!
He hung up abruptly. Tinkering a bit could mean anything from washing dishes to rearranging furniture. The rest of the day felt like walking on pins and needles. I imagined greasy stains on the matte cabinets, chips in the stone, melted plastic panels. When I finally stepped out of the lift, the hallway was thick with the scent of fried onions, yeasty dough and, oddly, bleach.
I fumbled the flatkey into the lock.
Im home! I shouted, shedding my shoes.
Silence answered me. Only the cheerful chatter of Margaret and the clatter of cutlery drifted from the kitchen. I walked down the corridor; the kitchen door stood ajar. I crossed the threshold and dropped my bag in shock.
My kitchen my sleek, charcoalhued haven was gone.
The first thing I saw was colourevery colour, loud and unapologetic. The pristine stone countertop was covered with a bright orange teacloth, splattered with gigantic sunflowers. The edges hung in uneven waves, draping over the lower cabinets.
Emily, dear, look what Ive done! Margaret called, turned around in a floral apron shed never owned before, grinning proudly. Ive baked some treats! Ive been up since five a.m., kneading dough. I thought youd love a bit of cheer.
I could barely speak. My eyes darted around, cataloguing the disaster. Where the strict grey cabinets once stood, now there were vinyl stickershandpainted butterflies in pink, blue and lime, each the size of a palm, haphazardly pasted on every door.
Margaret I rasped, feeling my left eye twitch. What is this?
Just a little something I picked up on the way to the shop, she replied, smiling. The flat was so drab, like a crypt. A splash of summer, a bit of joy! And Anton I mean James liked it, right, love?
James entered, looking guilty, glancing at his socks. Mum, I told her you might not like it
Like it? No, we should be celebrating! she exclaimed, waving her hands. Ive added warmth. A cosy home is more than expensive furnitureit’s the soul. It felt empty, cold.
I stepped toward the window. My favourite Romanstyle curtains, the colour of wet asphalt, were gone, replaced by a billowy white voile with goldembroidered swans.
My curtains? I whispered, barely audible. Where are they?
In the wash, Margaret said, flipping a sizzling pastry in the pan. They were dusty, grey. I brought my own set from my suitcase, just in case. Look how bright it is now, like a palace!
I lifted the edge of the sunflower cloth and uncovered a sticky patch.
You cant cover stone with a teacloth, I protested.
Oh, dear, the stone is cold, your elbows will freeze! I rolled out dough, didnt want to get it messy, so I smoothed the cloth over it. Its cheap, from the discount store, but it does the job, she replied, beaming.
My stomach churned like a volcano. I turned to the fridgea twometre steel monolith Id forbidden anyone to touch. It was now a magnet board, plastered with piglets, cats and tiny icons of the Golden Ring towns.
Where did those come from? I asked, voice shaking.
From my home, Margaret said proudly. I thought theyd gather dust otherwise. Look, this ones from Bath, where we went when James was five. Memories!
I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, trying to steady my nerves. I needed to keep my cool, not say anything rash. This was Jamess mother, after allshe meant well, she thought she was helping.
James, I said in a chilled tone, Can we speak in the bedroom for a moment?
He followed me, shoulders hunched, as Margaret shouted after us, Dont whisper, love, its getting chilly! Come sit down and eat while its hot!
In the bedroom, I shut the door and leaned against it.
You promised, I said. Promise to watch.
I was on a call, James began, fidgeting. I had a client meeting, went to get a glass of water, and then the butterflies appeared. I told Mum it would be fine, shed like it. I couldnt tear them down in front of her.
Didnt you see the damage? I snapped. The stickers could scar the surface, the glue could eat the softtouch finish!
Well clean it, he stammered. Ill wipe it with spirit. Its not that bad.
Its not the spirit, James, I said, my voice trembling. Its the principle. Shes turned my kitchen into a market stallribbons, sunflowers, butterflies! Shes treating my home like a playground.
He looked helpless, pleading with his eyes. I felt a flicker of anger melt into a dull, throbbing irritation.
Fine, I finally said, I wont make a scene now. Ill take the cloth off. Ill put the curtains back tonight. Ill say Im allergic to synthetic fabrics.
We went back to the kitchen. Margaret had already set the table. Beneath the orange cloth lay steaming bowls of borscht and a tower of savoury pastries.
Sit down, you two, she commanded. Shall I bring the sour cream?
I sat, appetite gone, though the aroma was tempting. I lifted a spoon, trying not to stare at the smiling caterpillar sticker right in front of me.
Thank you for dinner, Margaret, I began diplomatically. But about the décor I have a very specific taste. I prefer a bare, uncluttered space.
Thats not a taste, dear, thats depression, she retorted, biting into a pastry. A young woman should live surrounded by beautyflowers, frills, feminine energy. A sterile kitchen feels like an operating theatre. James, you agree?
James gulped his soup. Mum, I liked it. Its stylish.
Stylish? Margaret echoed, mockingly. Stylish is when the soul sings. Right now its singing. By the way, Ive tidied up the bathroom as well.
My spoon clattered onto the plate, borscht splattering over the sunflower print.
The bathroom? I asked, voice flat.
Yes, all the shampoos were in identical bottles, I labelled them. I put down fluffy pink mats for warm feet and replaced the glass partition with a proper curtain, complete with dolphins.
I rose slowly. Thanks, it was delicious, I said, staring at the wall. Im going to lie down. My head hurts.
I slipped out of the kitchen, hearing Margaret whisper loudly to James, See? Shes exhausted, nothing makes her happy, not even beauty. She needs vitamins.
The bathroom, once a sleek marble haven, now resembled a nursery. A toxicpink shaggy rug lay on the floor. The luxury soap dispensers Id ordered from Japan bore bold black labels: FOR HAIR, FOR BODY, SOAP. The glass partition was hidden behind a cheap bluedolphin plastic curtain, clamped to the tiles.
I sat on the edge of the tub, covering my face with my hands. I wanted to crynot from grief, but from helplessness. This wasnt just a matter of taste; it was an invasion, a brazen intrusion into my personal space disguised as care.
Ten minutes later, James peeked in.
Emily, are you okay?
I want her to leave, I whispered. Not in a weektomorrow.
Where will she go? Her flat is under renovation, theres no water
To a hotel. Ill pay for a decent room with breakfast. I cant live in this circus, James. Shes ruined my things. Look at those dispensers, all scribbled on! They wont come off!
Well clean them with spirit, James said, trying to stay calm. Dont get angry.
Its not about the spirit! I snapped. Its that she doesnt respect me. She treats our home like her personal playground. Shes marked her territory like a cat!
A sudden crash, the shattering of glass, and Margarets shrill scream erupted from the kitchen. James and I exchanged a startled look and rushed back.
The scene was chaotic. Margaret stood amid a pool of water and broken shards, clutching her chest. The heavy oak shelving unit that had perched above the table lay on the floor, splintered, along with the flower pots shed apparently tried to place there.
I I only wanted to water the flowers, she stammered. I thought the shelf was sturdy I just wanted some geraniums
I examined the wall; the brackets had ripped out, leaving yawning holes in the plaster, the plaster crumbling to reveal raw concrete.
The shelf was decorative, I said evenly. Its meant to hold a couple of picture frames, not three pots of soil.
Who would have known? she sobbed. Everything here feels flimsy! In my day furniture was built to last! This this is cardboard! One touch and it collapses!
I stepped over the broken glass, ran my finger along the torn edge of the plaster.
This is decorative plaster, I said, my voice calm but stern. A square metre of this costs as much as your pension for six months, Margaret. Repairing it invisibly is impossible. The whole wall will need redoing.
She fell silent, looking at me with bewildered eyes.
No, we cant cover it up with a picture or a rug, I continued. James, gather Mums belongings.
What? James and Margaret asked in unison.
Im calling a taxi. Book her a room at the Central Hotelgood rooms, all inclusive. Shell stay there until her own flat is finished. Ill pay. She wont be here another minute.
You’re evicting my mother? Margaret gasped, clutching her chest. Because of a hole in the wall? James, can you hear what shes saying?
James paled, his gaze flickering between the ruined wall and my face. Hed seen that look on my face a few times in our five years together, and he knew arguing would achieve nothing. If Id decided this, not even a bulldozer could move me.
Mum, he said quietly, Emilys right. This has gone too far. Youve demolished the kitchen.
I was trying to bring coziness! she wailed. I was helping! You ungrateful lot! My feet wont be here any longer!
Fine, I said, Pack up. James will help. Ill start peeling off the butterflies.
The packing was frantic. Margaret wept theatrically, lamenting the snake under my coat, flinging items into a suitcase, ripping the sunflower cloth from the wall, stealing all the fridge magnets, and stuffing everything into a bag.
I stood in the doorway, watching James carry the suitcase out. I felt no shame, only pityfor the cracked wall, for my frayed nerves, for James, caught between two worlds. I knew that swallowing this whole episode would only make things worse later. Tomorrow Id have to move the sofa, the day after Id toss the incorrect books, and in a year Id be raising our children according to my own standards.
When the door shut behind Margaret and James, a ringing silence settled over the flat.
I took a deep breath and returned to the kitchen, surveying the battlefield: debris on the floor, holes in the wall, stray glue on the cabinets where the butterflies had lived, the lingering scent of the pastries seeping into every crevice.
I fetched garbage bags, a step ladder, a solvent, and a putty knife. First I carefully peeled off the remaining stickers; the highquality finish held up and the glue came away easily. Then I stripped the gaudy bathroom curtain, washed the glass partition, and scrubbed the markings off the dispensers with spirit. The pink shag rug was tossed without remorse.
Two hours later, when James returned, the flat almost looked as it had before. Only the wall holes remained as mute testimony to the coziness invasion.
James slipped into the kitchen, as quiet as a mouse. I sat at the nowclean table, sipping tea.
I booked her a luxury room, just as you asked, he said, sitting opposite me. Shes still calling her friends, bragging that we kicked her out into the cold, even though its a mild twentydegree night outside.
Let her gossip, I shrugged. The important thing is shes not here.
Emily Im sorry, he murmured. I was a fool. I should have stopped her straight away. I grew up with her doing the same in my roomposters torn down, knitted napkins placed on the table because it looked nicer. I thought that was normal. A caring mother, I guess.
I looked at him, and for the first time that evening my eyes softened.
It wasnt caring, James. It was control. Im glad you finally see the difference. Well have the wall repairedIve already found a builder wholl assess the damage tomorrow. From now on, visits from your mum will be limited to holidays and only in neutral spaces. No overnight stays.
I agree, James said, nodding. Absolutely agree.
He rose, fetched a trash bag, and emptied the remnants of the pastries from the table.
What? They were tasty, I said, surprised.
They tasted like oppression, he joked. Ill order a pizza. Want a slice?
I laughed, the first genuine laugh of the night.
Ill have a doublecheese. And lets fling the windows open. We need to air out this coziness once and for all.
We settled on the livingroom floor, devouring pizza from the box, while the cool night breeze swept through the flat, carrying away the smells of fried oil and cheap perfume. The kitchen walls still bore their scars, but I knew they could be mended. Most importantly, I had defended my boundaries and, in the process, finally found an ally in my own husband. That, after all, was worth more than any repaired plaster.
