My Husband’s Family Invited Themselves to Our Holiday Cottage—But I Refused to Hand Over the Keys —“Well, we’ve made up our minds: why should your place stand empty? We’re heading to your country cottage for the Christmas holidays with the kids. Fresh air, sledging hill by the house, a nice sauna. You’re always at work anyway, Lena, and Vitya needs a break—but he says he just wants to sleep in. So hand over the keys, we’ll pop round tomorrow morning.” Svetlana, my husband’s sister, was barking down the phone so brashly I had to hold it away from my ear. I stood in the middle of my kitchen, still drying a plate, stunned by her nerve. My husband’s relatives were infamous for their cheekiness, but I never expected this level of pushiness. “Hold on, Svetlana,” I said as calmly as I could, trying not to let my irritation show. “Who decided this? With whom? The cottage isn’t some public leisure centre, it’s our home. And we were planning to go ourselves, as it happens.” “Oh come on!” Svetlana scoffed, munching on something so loudly I could hear it. “You were ‘planning’, sure. Vitya told mum you’d be home watching telly. There’s plenty of room—two floors! We won’t bother you if you show up… but better not, we’re a noisy crowd. Gena’s inviting friends: barbecue, music… you and your books would be bored to tears.” I felt my face flush as an all-too-familiar image filled my mind: Gena with his mates and their favourite loud, trashy music; their two teenage kids with zero boundaries; and my poor cottage, into which I’d poured five years of savings and all my heart. “No, Svetlana,” I said firmly. “I’m not giving you the keys. The place isn’t ready for guests, you need to know how to winterise the heating, and the septic tank is temperamental. Plus, I simply don’t want a mass party in my home.” “We’re not strangers!” my sister-in-law shrieked. “I’m your husband’s own sister, and those are your nieces and nephews! What’s wrong with you—have you gone all cold from crunching numbers? I’m ringing mum right now to tell her how you treat your family!” The dial tone exploded in my ear. I put my phone down, hands trembling. I knew this was only the beginning—soon my mother-in-law, Queen Nina, would roll out “heavy artillery,” and the siege would begin. Viktor sloped into the kitchen, guilty smile already in place. Of course he’d overheard, but preferred to hide out, hoping I’d sort everything myself. “Lena, did you have to be so harsh?” he started, trying to put an arm around me. “Svetka’s a pain, but they’re family… they’ll take offence.” I shook him off and turned to face him. The look I gave Viktor stopped him short. “Do you remember last May?” I said. Viktor grimaced. “Well, it was—” “‘It was’? They came for a ‘quick barbecue’, trashed the apple tree my father planted, burned holes in the sitting room carpet (which I scrubbed for a week), left a mountain of dirty dishes because Svetlana claimed, ‘I’ve got a manicure—use your dishwasher,’ then stuffed everything in there and clogged the filter. Don’t forget the broken vase, or the trampled peonies.” “They’re just kids…” Viktor mumbled, tracing patterns on the lino. “Kids? Your nephew’s fifteen and the niece is thirteen. They rammed the steam room door shut, nearly set our house on fire! And you want to hand them the house for a week? In winter?” “Well, they promised to be careful. Gena said he’d supervise.” “Gena supervises the drinks cabinet. No, Viktor. I said no. It’s MY home—legally and in fact! Every penny from Grandma’s flat went into the renovation. I know every nail. I won’t have it turned into a pigsty.” That evening passed in heavy silence. Viktor tried the TV, then retreated to bed. I sat in the kitchen, drinking cold tea, thinking how we’d built that place. It was a sanctuary—not just a holiday let. For his family, though, it was a free hotel by default. Next morning, the doorbell rang. Nina Petrovna in full regalia—fur hat, scarlet lipstick, and a massive handbag with a frozen fish tail sticking out. “Open up, Lena! We need to talk!” she barked without so much as a “hello.” Soon enough, she’d stationed herself like a judge at the kitchen table. “Explain yourself, dear daughter-in-law,” Nina began primly, sipping her tea. “What’s wrong with Svetochka? We asked nicely: give us the keys, we just want a peaceful break. Their flat’s being renovated—dust and mess everywhere. And there your palace sits, empty. What’s it to you?” “Nina Petrovna,” I answered evenly, “it’s no palace—just a house in need of care. For over five years Svetlana’s had ‘renovations’ as her excuse to annex our place. And last time, your family smoked inside despite my asking you not to. The smell is still in the curtains.” “A bit of smoke! Air it out! You, Lena, care more about things than people, that’s materialism, that is!” my mother-in-law snapped. “We raised Viktor to be kind, not a miser!” “Mum, Lena really did put everything into the place—” Viktor offered. “Quiet!” Nina shot back. “Her way or nothing—making a henpecked husband out of you. Your sister and her children should freeze outside in January? Gena’s birthday is the third, a big milestone! Guests already invited—meat bought. What are we supposed to do now, cancel and be humiliated?” “That’s not my problem,” I said coolly. “Inviting guests to someone else’s house without asking first—that’s called rudeness, Nina Petrovna.” She flushed beetroot red—unused to rebuttal, especially from Viktor. I was tougher than she liked. “Hmph! Is this how you talk to your mother-in-law?” Nina grabbed at her heart, playing wounded. “Vitya! Give me the keys, I’ll hand them to Svetlana myself! Are you the man of this house or what?” Viktor looked helplessly from her to me, torn in two. In truth, he too valued the cottage; he hated the chaos each visit brought. “Mum, the keys are with Lena, and we might go there ourselves.” “Lies!” she thundered. “Alright. Svetlana’s turning up in the morning. Keys on the table, and write her instructions for the boiler. If not—Vitya, you’re no son of mine. And as for you,” she jabbed at me, “remember this day. The world turns.” She stormed out, slamming the door. “You won’t cave in?” Viktor asked quietly after a while. “I won’t,” I said. “And we’re going to the cottage tomorrow. Ourselves.” “But you’ve got deadlines, you said—” “Plans change. If we don’t get there first, they’ll try to break in. You know your sister. She’ll climb through a window if she wants. If we’re in, they’ll have to go away.” “Lena… this is war.” “No, Viktor—this is drawing the line. Pack your bags.” We left before dawn. The city was gorgeous in its festive finery, but all joy had been drained from us. Viktor fretted, glancing at his silenced phone. The drive was quiet. The cottage gleamed under its snowy hat—like the cover of a Christmas card. Safely inside, we turned the heating up, dug out Christmas baubles, breathed as relief set in. For a few hours, peace. At 3pm, horns blared at the gate. I saw a crowd: Svetlana’s old SUV, an unknown sedan, children, a giant, unmuzzled Rottweiler, a random couple, and the matriarch herself. Viktor stood stock-still, shovel in hand. “Open up, lads! We’re here!” Gena shouted from behind the fence. I stepped onto the porch. Viktor hovered by the gate. “Vitya, let us in, we’re freezing!” Svetlana whined. “Lena, we wanted to surprise you! If you’re here, even better! Let’s all celebrate together!” I put my hand on Viktor’s shoulder and said, loud and clear: “Sorry, we weren’t expecting company.” “Oh quit the act!” Gena boomed. “We brought meat and crates of vodka, look—Tolya brought his wife and the dog. The dog’s friendly! Let us in, Vitya!” “The dog?” I saw the Rottweiler already peeing on my beloved shrub. “Get the dog off my plants!” “It’s just a tree!” Svetlana giggled. “Come on! The kids need the loo!” “There’s a toilet at the petrol station, five miles that way,” I replied crisply. “As I told you—our cottage is occupied. We’re here, and there’s no room for ten people and a dog.” A stunned silence hung over the crowd. They’d confidently expected that a full-frontal siege would override our boundaries. “You’re really not going to let us in?” Nina Petrovna’s voice shook with icy rage. “Your own mother, left out in the cold? Vitya—say something!” Viktor looked at me, pleadingly. “Lena… they’ve come all this way… How can you?” “Like this, Viktor.” I fixed him with a stare. “If you open that gate, within an hour it’ll be a drunken mess. The dog will wreck the garden, the kids will trash the bedrooms, your sister will ‘teach’ me to cook in my own kitchen, Gena will smoke indoors… and we won’t have our Christmas at all. So: chaos, or a peaceful holiday with me. You choose—now.” Viktor looked at the yowling family outside. Memories of last time flashed through his mind; the swing he’d spent three days repairing, the burnt carpet, his longing for simple peace. He straightened, stepped to the gate and said, maybe softly, but with real resolve: “Mum, Svetlana, Lena’s right. You were told—no keys, no guests. Please leave.” “What?!” they howled. “You heard me. This house is mine too, and I don’t want a circus. Off you go.” Gena started ranting, grabbing for the gate, but Viktor hefted his shovel. “Off you go, Gena, or I’ll call the police. This estate has security.” “Strangers?! STRANGERS?!” Nina shrieked. “Traitor! And your witch of a wife! I’ll never set foot in your life again!” “Come on, let’s leave this madhouse,” Svetlana yelled, giving me a rude gesture as they bundled into their cars. “We’ll go to Tolya’s place—at least he’s got soul!” Engines revved, wheels span, and within five minutes, only silence and the whirl of pale snow remained. Viktor slumped to the steps, face in his hands. “Oh God, how humiliating. My own mother…” I sat beside him, hugged him tight. “It’s not humiliation, Viktor. It’s growing up. You stood up for our family—for us. Not their ‘clan’—us.” “She’ll never forgive me.” “She’ll forgive you—when she needs something. Money for medicine, help with her leaky roof. That’s how it works. They never stay offended if it’s inconvenient. But now they know—not to barge in. Not without respect. You’ve earned it. If not… at least we’ll be at peace.” “You think so?” “I know so. And if not—so be it. Now, come inside before you freeze. I’ll make mulled wine.” We went in, drew the curtains, and shut out the cold and the shouting world. That night by the fire, we sat in companionable silence—true, restorative quiet. Three blissful days followed. Walks in the woods, cozy evenings, just us. Family phones stayed silent—boycott in full effect. On January 3rd, as predicted, a message arrived from Svetlana. No apology—only a photo of a grim shed, battered stove, bottles everywhere, red-faced Gena. Caption: “We’re having a blast without you! Jealous?” I looked at the messy photo, then at my husband—peaceful, book in hand. I smiled and deleted the message. Back in town a week later, Nina Petrovna herself called—her voice stiff, but asking Viktor to drive her to the clinic. The cottage was never mentioned. The boundary had been set. Skirmishes would follow, but our sanctuary stood strong. I’d learned the hardest lesson: Sometimes, you have to be the “bad guy” for others—to be true to yourself and protect your marriage. The cottage keys, from then on, lived safely locked away. Just in case.

My Wifes Family Invited Themselves to Our Cottage for the Holidays, but I Refused to Give Them the Keys

– So, we had a chat and came to a decision: why let your cottage sit empty for no reason over Christmas and New Years? Were going to take the children and spend the holidays there. The fresh air, the sledging hill nearby, well get the wood burner going. You, Alice, are always busy with work anyway, and Tom needs a break, even though he says he just wants to catch up on sleep. So, hand over the keys, will you? Well pop by early tomorrow.

Claire, my wife Alices younger sister, was speaking down the phone so loudly and so matter-of-factly that Alice had to hold the mobile away from her ear. Alice was standing in the kitchen, drying a plate, trying to get her head around what she was hearing. My wife was already famous in the family for having to deal with her in-laws audacity, but even she hadnt expected this level of pushiness.

– Hold on, Claire, – Alice said slowly, fighting not to let her voice quiver with mounting irritation. – Who decided this, exactly? With whom? Our cottage isnt some public community centre or holiday camp. Its mine and Toms house. And, for the record, we were planning to go ourselves.

– Oh, dont fuss, – Claire said breezily, obviously chewing something at the other end. – You were planning? Tom told Mum youd both be at home, glued to the telly. Youve got plenty of room, two floors. We wont be a bother, even if you do turn up. But best stay away, really we have our lively crowd. Dave will have his mates round, barbecue, music You lot with your books would be bored stiff anyway.

Alice felt a flush rising in her cheeks. The image sprang to mind at once: Claires husband Dave, noisy, partial to spirits and blaring pop music, their two unruly teenage children with no concept of dont, and our poor cottage, into which Alice had poured her heart and all our savings over the past five years.

– No, Claire, – said Alice firmly. – Im not handing over the keys. The cottage isnt ready for company, you have to know how to shut down the heating, and the septic tank is moody at the best of times. And frankly, I dont want a whole crowd partying there.

– What, were strangers now, are we?! – Claire squealed, her mouth finally stopping. – Your husbands own sister and nieces! Youve gone completely cold-hearted with your accounting Ill ring Mum and tell her how you treat the family!

The beeps in the phone sounded like gunshots. Alice set her phone down on the kitchen table, hands shaking. She knew it was only the beginning; now the heavy artillery would be deployed in the formidable form of Toms mother, Mrs. Mildred Evans, and a siege would begin.

Within a minute I walked into the kitchen, managing an apologetic smile. Of course, Id heard it all, but Id hoped my wife would be able to handle it on her own.

– Alice, did you have to be so blunt? I opened gently, trying to slip an arm around her shoulders. Claire can be a bit much, but they are family. Theyll be upset.

Alice brushed my hand off and turned to me. She looked not just tired, but resolved.

– Tom, do you remember last May? she asked in a low voice.

I pulled a face, as though biting on something unpleasant.

– I remember…

– Do you? Alices voice started to rise. They said theyd come for two days for a barbecue. Ended up with a broken apple tree, which my dad planted. A big burn mark on the living room carpet that I spent a week trying to get out, and the stains still there. A mountain of greasy dishes because Claire said Ive got a manicure and youve got a dishwasher, but they didnt even run the dishwasher, just stuffed everything in and blocked the filter with scraps of food. And the smashed vase? And my trampled peonies?

– The children… They were just playing I mumbled, staring at the pattern on the lino.

– Children? Tom, your nephews fifteen and your niece is thirteen. Not toddlers in the sandpit. Fully-grown and fully aware of what theyre doing. They made a sauna in the steam room and forgot to open the vent! We nearly burnt the place down! And you want to let them go there alone? For a week? In winter?

– Dave promised theyd be careful He said hed keep an eye on things.

– The only thing Dave keeps an eye on is the vodka level! Alice snapped and turned to the window. No, Tom. I said no. This is my house legally, and in fact. I put all the money from my grans flat into the renovation. I know every nail in that place. I wont see it turned into a pigsty.

That evening was spent in tense silence. I tried to watch something on telly, but soon switched it off and went to the bedroom. Alice sat in the kitchen with a cup of cold tea, remembering how wed built that house.

It wasnt just a cottage; it was a dream. The old wooden frame left to her by her parents, wed rebuilt from scratch over three years. Alice had scrimped on everything: made do with old clothes, didnt go abroad. Everything went to the house. She sanded beams herself, painted the walls, made the curtains, picked the tiles for the fireplace. For her, it was a sanctuary, an escape from city noise and work stress. But to my relatives, it was simply a free resort with all the mod cons.

The next day, Saturday, the doorbell rang. Alice checked through the peephole and sighed. There was Mrs. Mildred Evans, full regalia: fur hat, lipstick, and a massive bag from which the tail of a frozen cod was sticking out.

– Open up, Alice! We need to talk! boomed Mrs. Evans, not bothering with pleasantries.

Alice let her in. My mother sailed into the hall like a battleship, filling every inch of space. I scuttled out excitedly, secretly dreading what was coming.

– Mum! Didnt expect you, everything all right?

– I need an appointment to see my own son now? she sniffed, dumping her coat for me to hold. Put the kettle on. And find me the valerian drops, my hearts been all of a flutter thanks to you two.

In the kitchen, my mother-in-law planted herself at the table like a judge at court. Alice put out cups and sliced some cake, bracing herself.

– Well then, my dear, – Mrs. Evans began grandly, sipping her tea. What exactly is so wrong with Claire? Your own husbands sister, blood of his blood. All they politely asked for was the keys to the cottage. They just want a break. Their flats a building site, dust everywhere, the children can barely breathe. And your palace sits empty. Would it kill you to share?

– Mrs. Evans, – Alice answered calmly, looking directly at her, Firstly, its not a palace, just a house that needs a lot of care. Secondly, Claires been renovating for five years, which is no excuse to commandeer our home. Thirdly, I remember their last visit all too well. The stench of smoke still lingers in the guest curtains, even though I expressly asked for no smoking in the house.

– Ooh, so they smoked a bit! my mother exclaimed. You can open a window! Alice, you care more about things than people. Its called being materialistic! Middle class snobbery! We raised Tom to be kind and generous; youre making him tight-fisted. Cant take your cottage to the grave, can you?

– Mum, Alice really did pour her heart and soul into it I ventured meekly.

– Hush! she shot back. Letting your wife rule the roost! How can Claire and the children be left out in the cold? Daves birthday is on January third, 45 this year! They wanted to celebrate in style, out in nature. Guests are invited, meats been bought. Are we to cancel and look like fools in front of everyone now?

– Well, its not my problem if they invited guests to someone elses house without asking, Alice cut her off. Thats called bad manners, Mrs. Evans.

My mother flushed red. She wasnt used to being contradicted. Usually her bulldozing broke any resistance, especially with me, her mild-mannered son. But Alice was made of sterner stuff.

– Bad manners? Mrs. Evans clutched her chest, gasping theatrically. Thats what you call me? I welcomed you like a daughter! Tom, are you listening to how she speaks to your mother? If you dont hand over those keys to Claire immediately, IIll curse that house, I will! I shant step foot there ever again!

– You hardly ever set foot there anyway, you hate gardening, Alice muttered under her breath.

– You snake! snapped Mrs. Evans, jumping up and knocking her chair over. Tom, give me the keys! Ill hand them to Claire myself. Are you the man of the house or not?

I looked between my stricken wife and my furious mother. Torn, as always. I was scared of Mums wrath, as Id been since childhood, but I loved Alice, and truthfully, I loved that cottage too. I remembered fixing the porch last time after Dave had all but pulled it off getting the barbecue in from the rain.

– Mum, Alice has the keys, I barely whispered. And maybe well go ourselves.

– Liar! Mrs. Evans spat. Look at your shifty eyes. Right. Claires coming round tomorrow morning. I want those keys on the table, instructions for the boiler and all. Otherwise youre no son of mine. And you, she jabbed at Alice, youll remember this, you mark my words! The world is round!

She stormed out, slamming the door. Silence fell, broken only by the ticking clock.

– Youre not going to give in, are you? I asked, quietly, half an hour later.

– Im not, said Alice. And more than that, Tom. Were leaving for the cottage early tomorrow. Ourselves.

– But we werent planning youve got those reports to finish.

– Plans change. If we dont occupy the house, theyll storm it. I know your sister shed climb in through the window if she thinks she needs to. If were there, shell have to turn away.

– Alice, itll be war

– Its called defending our borders, Tom. Start packing.

We set off before dawn. The city was beautiful under Christmas lights, but there wasnt much festive spirit between us. Tom fidgeted, checking his phone every five minutes, but Alice had made him put it on silent.

It took an hour and a half to get to the cottage. When we arrived, the village slept under a thick blanket of snow. Our house, honey-coloured wood with a snowy roof, looked like something off a Christmas card. Alice visibly relaxed here, she was safe.

We got the fire roaring, set the underfloor heating going. Alice brought out boxes of Christmas decorations stored away in the cupboard. By lunchtime the place smelled of pine and clementines. Much of the tension began to ease. I cleared snow in the garden, and Alice watched me from the window. We both needed the peace I just found it harder to admit.

Disaster struck at three oclock.

A persistent car horn blared at the gates. Alice peeked out and paled. At the fence stood two cars: Daves ancient Land Rover and an unfamiliar saloon. Out tumbled the crowd Claire, Dave in his half-buttoned coat, the two kids, an unknown couple with a huge Rottweiler, and in the middle, Mrs. Evans herself, commanding the troops.

I stood frozen, spade in hand.

– Open up, folks! Guests have arrived! Dave thundered across the garden.

Alice pulled on her coat and boots and stepped onto the porch. I hovered by the gate, unsure whether to open it.

– Tom, open up! Were freezing! called Claire, rattling the gate. Come on, Alice! Weve come as a surprise! Much more fun now were all here well celebrate together!

Alice joined me, laid a calm hand on my arm and said loudly,

– Hello. We werent expecting anyone.

– Oh, dont start pretending! Dave waved, reeking of stale drink even from there. Surprise! Weve brought meat and a crate of vodka! And just look, Tony and his wife are here, with their dog shes harmless, wont bite. Let us in, Tom!

– A dog? Alice saw the Rottweiler was lifting its leg on her beloved yew tree, carefully wrapped for winter. Get that dog away from my plants!

– Oh, its only a tree! Claire laughed. Come on, let us in the kids are bursting for the loo!

– Theres a loo at the petrol station, five miles along, Alice replied clearly, each word deliberate. As I said yesterday: the cottage is occupied. Were here for a quiet holiday. We cant host ten people and a dog.

Quiet fell on the other side of the gate. The shock was palpable. Theyd clearly come certain that, in person and with Mum present, no one would dare turn them away a classic family tactic.

– Youre not letting us in? Mrs. Evans voice quivered with outrage. Leaving your own mother in the cold? Tom! Speak to her!

I looked at Alice: her gaze was steely.

– Alice, really, theyre already here How can we just…

– Like this, Tom, Alice said firmly. If you open that gate, this place will turn into a drunken shambles within the hour. The dog will dig up everything, leave filth everywhere. The kids will wreck the upstairs. Your sister will lecture me on proper cooking, and your brother-in-law will smoke in the sitting room. Our break will be ruined. Is that what you want? Or do you want a peaceful New Year with me? Choose. Now.

I glanced at my family shouting at the gate. Dave was kicking his car tyre, Claire shrieked about heartless bitches, the kids threw snowballs at the windows, and Mrs. Evans clutched her chest in melodramatic agony.

Suddenly, what really mattered came clear to me. I remembered spending three days fixing that swing set after the last time how embarrassed Id been about the burnt carpet, all Id wanted was to relax by the fire, not be runner for Daves vodka.

I squared my shoulders, stepped close to the gate, and maybe not loudly, but clearly I said:

– Mum, Claire. Alice is right. We told you, no keys and no visitors. Please go home.

– What?! The whole mob shrieked.

– You heard me. Its my house as well. I dont want a circus here. Off you go.

– You you Dave lunged to try and reach the bolt through the bars.

– Leave it, Dave, I said, gripping my spade. Ill call the police if you dont. Securitys on patrol in the village.

– Strangers, are we now?! Mrs. Evans gasped. Well see about that! May you both rot, you traitor, with your poison snake of a wife! I shant set foot in your lives again!

– Lets get out of here! Claire screeched, tugging Dave. Theyre mad! Lets go to Tonys, even if it isnt finished. At least those people are welcoming!

– Right, lets go! Tony piped up, clearly mortified at being caught up in this scene. Ive got a wood burner, well manage!

The cars skidded and roared away. Claire flashed Alice a crude gesture from the window, Mrs. Evans sat rigidly in the front seat staring ahead, stone-faced.

In minutes the cottage was quiet. Only the yellowing mark on the yew tree and settling snow showed anyone had been there.

I stabbed the spade into the drift and slumped onto the step, burying my face in my hands.

– God, what a humiliation, I muttered. My own mother

Alice sat down next to me, slipped her arm around my shoulders.

– Its not humiliation, Tom. Its growing up. You protected our family. Not their crowd, always demanding, but whats ours.

– Shell never forgive me.

– She will. As soon as she needs something, like money for prescriptions or help with the flat. Thats how they are. They cant hold a grudge if it doesnt suit them. But now they know: this is our border. They cant just break in. They might even start respecting you not right away, but they will.

– You think so?

– I know so. And if not well live more peacefully for it. Lets go in before you freeze. Ill make mulled wine.

We went inside, Alice drew the curtains, shutting out the cold and the spiteful words. That evening, we sat by the fire, watching the flames, comfortable in a new kind of silence: not one of hurt, but of understanding.

The next three days were blissful. Walks in the woods, quiet dinners, just us. We steamed in our own little sauna, read books, and the phones stayed silent a full family boycott.

On the third of January, as Alice had predicted, Claire sent Tom a text. Not an apology just a photo. A rundown shed somewhere, a dented metal stove, vodka bottles everywhere, tired faces. The caption: Were having a brilliant party without you lot! Green with envy, eh?

Alice peered at it: the filthy table, Daves puffy face. She looked up at me, dozing peacefully in an armchair, a book balanced on my chest.

– Nothing to envy there, Claire, she murmured, and deleted the message, not wanting to spoil my sleep.

A week later, back in the city, Mrs. Evans herself rang. Her voice was cool and wounded, but she asked me to take her to the doctor. Not a word about the cottage. The boundary was set though there would occasionally be shots across the bow, our castle was safe.

Looking back, I understood the most vital thing: sometimes, you have to be the bad guy for others, so you can be good to yourself and look after your own family. As for the cottage keys, Alice keeps them safely locked away in her desk drawer just in case.