I Took Back the Spare Keys from My Mother-in-Law After Catching Her Asleep on My Bed

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 13 minViews 2

I still remember the day I snatched a spare set of keys from my motherinlaw after catching her asleep in my own bed.

Emily, youre blowing this out of proportion, James said, his voice cracking into a high pitch as he paced the kitchen, clutching the back of a chair as if it might steady him. She was just an old woman looking for a rest. Whats the crime in that? Shes not a stranger, shes my mother. His words trailed off, nervous and raw.

I stood by the window, arms crossed, a shiver rattling through my bones that I tried desperately to mask. The image from an hour earlier still burned in my mind: I had left work early because a vicious migraine had taken hold, turned the key to my bedroom, and found Agnes Black, my motherinlaw, sprawled across the double bed that James and I shared. She lay on the blankets in nothing but her nightgown, humming softly, clutching my pillow. On the nightstand a halffilled mug of tea sat beside a few bitten biscuits, crumbs scattered like tiny constellations across the expensive satin sheets.

James, can you hear me? I whispered, each syllable ringing like steel. Shes been in my bed. In her underwear. Eating biscuits. And we never invited her. She walked in with her own key and made herself a nap. Do you think thats acceptable?

She must have a spike in her blood pressure, James tried to defend her, though bewilderment flickered in his eyes. Shed been out at the market with heavy bags, felt faint, needed a drink of water. Where else could she go but the hall rug?

What about the sitting room? We have a lovely, comfortable sofa there. Why did she choose our private bedroom, the one I dont even let the cat into? And why did she strip off? If someone feels ill they call an ambulance, not stage a striptease and a picnic in someone elses bed, I retorted, my anger acting as a stronger painkiller than any tablet.

The bathroom door swung open and Agnes emerged, already dressed, a bathrobe draped over her arm the very robe I owned. She looked offended, as if her virtue had been trampled.

I hear everything! she declared, marching to the kitchen and claiming the head of the table as her throne. And it pains me. I come to you with all my heart, I care for you, and you repay me with coldness.

I turned slowly to face her, my head still thudding, but my fury sharpened like a blade.

Mrs. Black, what exactly do you call caring? Sneaking into our home without asking? Sleeping in our bed?

She pursed her lips, eyes darting to James for support.

James, look at her. Shes painting me as the monster. I was just passing by, thought Id pop in, maybe drop some flowersEmilys geraniums are always wilting. I felt dizzy, went to the bedroom because its cooler, thought Id lie down a minute. The heat made me strip, I didnt want to crumple my dress. It was my day off, after all.

And the biscuits? I asked. Do they help your pressure?

I found the biscuits in your cupboard! Sugar fell, had to pick it up! Dont scold me for a piece of bread, James. I gave your husband a life, I deserve a cup of tea in his house.

Your husbands house, I echoed. You forget, this is our home too. We pay the mortgage together. We set the rules here.

I walked to the table and placed my hand, palm up.

Keys.

A ringing silence fell over the kitchen. James stopped his pacing, froze by the fridge. Agness eyes widened, her face flushing crimson.

What? she whispered, as if she hadnt heard.

Give me back the spare set of keys to our flat. Right now, I said.

Youve gone mad! she shrieked. James! Youll let her treat me like this? Im his mother! What if theres a fire? A flood? We need the keys for emergencies! Its the law of safety!

Well manage on our own, I snapped. You crossed my personal boundaries. You used the keys not for emergencies but to meddle while we were away. I cant trust you any longer. The keys are on the table.

I wont give them up! she clutched her handbag on the stool. This is my sons house and Ill come whenever I like! You wont push me out! James, say something!

James turned a deep shade of red, torn between his furious wife and his mother, who was already rummaging for a bottle of pills.

Emily, perhaps we shouldnt be so harsh? he muttered. Mum meant no harm. She made a mistake, who hasnt. Its inconvenient to lose the keys, what if we forget them

If you dont side with me now, James, I whispered, sending a chill down his spine, tomorrow Ill change the locks. The day after Ill file for divorce. I didnt sign up for a hallway life. I want to come home and know my bed is untouched, my dishes unsullied, my things unsearched. Choose: be the man of the house, or remain a mothers boy without me.

James stared at his mother. Agnes stood, a syringe of medicine in her hand, waiting for the usual sonsidewithmother defense. Then a memory flashed: just a week earlier she had tossed out an important cheque while organising his paperwork, rearranged the livingroom furniture on a whim of feng shui, and Emily had wept in helplessness.

Mum, he said hoarsely, hand over the keys.

What? Youre youre kicking your own mother out? Agnes choked. All because of a fit?

Mum, youve gone too far. Sleeping in our bed is too much. Emilys right. This is our home. Return the keys, please, before things get worse.

Agnes stared at her son for what felt like an eternity, then slowly, with trembling hands, produced a set of keys on a rabbitshaped keyring a gift James had given her and flung them onto the table. The metal clattered.

Take them and be gone! she spat. My feet wont be here any longer! Forget your mother, youre trading her for rags! When Im dead, dont come to my grave with your fake tears!

She snatched her bag, lifted her chin, and stormed out, slamming the front door so hard the plaster around the doorway crumbled.

I sank into a chair, the migraine returning with renewed vigor.

Are you pleased? James grumbled, not meeting my eyes. Now her pressure will spike, an ambulance will be called. Ill be to blame.

Youll be calm, not guilty, I replied, slipping the keys into my pocket. And Ill be calm too. Thank you, James. I know how hard this was for you.

Its not hard, he muttered. Shell call for months, curse us.

Well survive, I said, embracing him from behind. At least the house is ours. Only ours.

But the tale did not end there. I knew Agnes would not give up easily; the returned keys might not be the only copies. Who was to say she hadnt made a duplicate of the duplicate?

The next day I took a halfday off, called a locksmith, and had the lock replaced. James never learned why; I kept the excuse that the lock had jammed. My intuition proved right.

Three days later, on a Saturday, we lingered in bed longer than usual. At ten oclock a strange sound echoed from the front door the clatter of a key being turned, a grumble, another turn, then silence, then the clatter again.

James and I exchanged glances.

Are you waiting for someone? he whispered.

No. You?

Neither.

We rose quietly, tiptoed to the door. The peephole was dark; someone had covered it with a finger.

What now? a familiar voice bellowed from outside Agness unmistakable shout. Stuck? Wrong key? Not the one with the red ribbon?

I stared at James, victorious. She made a copy, I said, lips barely moving. She knew Id demand the keys and prepared.

A phone rang behind the door.

Hello, Lucy? Agness voice boomed, unashamed. Im standing at the young couples door! I wanted to surprise them pancakes, coffee, a little treat. The key wont fit! Looks like theyve changed the locks! Can you believe that? Mother versus son, barricades everywhere!

James covered his face, his forehead pressed to the cold metal. Shame flooded him.

What now, shall we open? I asked.

We must. Otherwise shell make a fuss in the whole block, James replied.

I turned the latch and threw the door open. Agnes, halfcollapsed, tumbled in, a tray of pancakes draped in a towel in one hand, her phone and the keyring in the other.

Oh! Youre awake! she chirped, unfazed. Did you change the lock?

Yes, Mum, James said, his voice icecold. We changed it on purpose, so there are no more surprises.

What surprises? she feigned innocence, eyes wide. I brought pancakes with cottage cheese, your favourite.

Mum, three days ago you threw the keys, swore youd never come back, and now youre trying to sneak in with a spare you hid. Do you see how that looks?

I didnt hide them! It was an old set I forgot about, then found in my winter coat! she protested. And I wasnt sneaking! I just wanted a nice breakfast in bed!

We dont want your breakfast, Mum. We want privacy. You lied about giving us the keys and now youre testing whether your backup works.

Its my way! I need your version! she huffed, placing the pancake tray on the hallway table. Live as you wish, you selfish lot! Im still kindhearted, but you

She turned to leave, but at that moment our neighbour, Mrs. Bailey, a sharptongued woman from next door, stepped onto the landing, rubbish bag in hand, drawn by the commotion.

Oh, Agnes! Whats all this ruckus this early? I thought someone was being robbed.

Theyre robbing, Bailey! Robbing my soul! My sons taken away from his mother, locks changed, not even a step on the threshold! I brought pancakes, and they turn their noses up!

Goodness, Mrs. Bailey shook her head, squinting. I heard you fiddling with keys for about ten minutes. Thought perhaps burglars. Turns out youre just paying visits without a knock? With your own key?

Whats wrong with that? Hes my son!

I dont barge into my daughterinlaws home. Young couples have their own business. Maybe theyre walking around in the nude, and Im here with pancakes. Its awkward. You need a conscience.

Agnes flushed crimson. Complaining to a friend on the phone was one thing; being called out by the buildings gossip was another. Now everyone would know shed tried to force her way in.

Enough of you all! she shouted, flinging her arm. Its a madhouse!

She pressed the lift button, turned her chin up, and stalked away. The lift doors shut with a clang.

James grabbed the pancake tray from the hallway.

Mum, take the pancakes. We dont need them.

Throw them away! Or give them to the dogs! I made them for you, and you

The lift doors closed.

We returned to the flat and bolted the new, sturdy lock, now with only two sets of keys.

The pancakes smell good, James murmured sadly, placing the tray on the kitchen counter.

We wont eat them, I said firmly. Who knows what she might have slipped into them as revenge.

James looked at me, then burst into laughter, first quiet, then fullblown, tears streaming. The tension of the past days finally broke.

Youre right. Forget her. Let me make an omelette. Just me, in our kitchen, no audience.

Go on, I smiled, feeling the migraine lift like fog in the morning.

We ate breakfast together, chatting about weekend plans. Agnes didnt call for weeks. James first twitched, wanting to dial, but I stopped him.

Give her time. Shell try to manipulate with silence. If you call first, shell think shes won and the cycle will start again. She must learn the rules have changed forever.

A month later Agnes phoned at work, dry and businesslike, asking for a lift for the cat to the vet. James obliged and returned home calm.

How did it go? I asked.

Fine. She was quiet all the way there. Then, on the drive back, she said, Tell your wife I have a cucumber pickle recipe she asked for a year ago. If she needs it, she can rewrite it.

That a white flag? I raised an eyebrow.

Seems so. She also asked what brand of tea we drink, the one she liked in the bedroom. She liked it.

I shook my head.

Ill buy her tea and a jar of pickles. But the keys, James, shell never have them again. Never.

Never, James affirmed. My wifes comfort and my own peace are worth more than mums whims. Well water the flowers ourselves if we move, or get an automatic sprinkler.

From then on peace settled over our home. Agnes still loved to gripe and offer unsolicited advice, but now only over the phone or during scheduled visits she arranged in advance. She finally understood that the door to her sons life now opened only from the inside, and to enter she must knock politely, not barge in with imagined maternal concern.

I finally could relax in my own flat. I replaced the bedding with an even finer set, bought a new dressing gown, and knew that when I returned home, silence, order, and the sanctity of my little personal haven would be waiting. Because boundaries are not walls that split people, but doors that let love flow at a safe distance.

I Called Out the Window, “Mum, Why Are You Up So Early? You’ll Catch Your Death!” She Turned, Waving Her Shovel: “I’m Doing This for You Lazybones.” The Next Day, Mum Was Gone… Even Now I Can’t Pass Our Garden Without My Heart Breaking: Each Time I See That Path, It Feels Like Someone’s Gripping My Chest. I Took That Photo on the Second of January—Just Passing By, I Saw Mum’s Footprints in the Snow and Stopped. Snapped a Picture Without Knowing Why; Now, It’s All That Remains From Those Days… We Always Celebrated New Year Together as a Family. On the 31st, Mum Was Up Early, Making Her Legendary Fried Cutlets, Calling Me Down in Her Peach-Print Apron. Dad Brought Home a Giant Tree (“Blimey, Dad, Did You Chop Down the Whole Forest?”), Mum Dusted Off Our Old Decorations—Including the Glass Angel She Got Me for My First Christmas. My Brother Showed Up With Champagne, My Sister and I Decorated, and at Midnight We All Went Outside. Sparklers, Mum by My Side, Whispering, “Isn’t Life Wonderful?”—And I Whispered Back, “The Best, Mum.” We Laughed Until We Cried, Mum Dancing in Her Wellies, Dad Spinning Her Round. The Next Morning, Mum Was Back in the Kitchen (“Save Room, It’s Only the Start of the Holidays!”), and On the 2nd, I Saw Her Clearing the Snow-Covered Path, Just Like Always (“Or You Lot Will End Up Trudging Through Drifts Till Spring—Put the Kettle On, Will You?”). That Was the Last Time I Heard Her Cheerful Voice. On the 3rd, She Murmured, “Girls, My Chest Hurts a Bit…”—Brushed Off the Ambulance (“Just Tired, Love”), Joked as Always, but Suddenly, Something Was Deeply Wrong—Her Last Words, “I Love You So Much… Hate to Say Goodbye.” Everything Happened in a Blink: One Day She Was Dancing Under Fireworks, and the Next, She Was Gone. I Stood in the Snow, Staring at Her Footprints from Gate to Porch—The Last Path She Cleared for Us, and I Couldn’t Bear to Let the Snow Hide Them. That Photo of Mum’s Final Tracks—I Look at It Every Third of January, Staring at the Bare Path Where Her Footprints Once Were, Realising: Beneath That Snow, She Left Her Last Mark. And Somehow, I’m Still Following Her Steps…

— Mr Smith, You’ve Overslept Again! — the Bus Driver’s Friendly Voice Held a Hint of Reproach. — That’s the Third Time This Week I’ve Seen You Chasing the Bus Like the Clappers. The elderly pensioner in his crumpled jacket was out of breath, leaning heavily on the handrail. His grey hair was tousled and his glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose. — Sorry, Andrew… — he gasped, fishing some scrunched-up notes from his pocket. — My watch must be running slow. Or perhaps I’m just getting on… Andrew Grant — the bus driver with over twenty years behind the wheel, in his mid-forties, sun-kissed from the road. He knew most of his regular travellers. But this old chap stood out — always polite, quiet, riding at the same time every day. — Oh, never mind, hop in. Where to today? — To the cemetery, as usual. The bus trundled off. Mr Smith settled into his favourite seat — third row from the driver, by the window, clutching a battered plastic bag filled with odds and ends. There weren’t many passengers — weekday morning. A couple of students gossiped, a suited man scrolled through his phone. Just another ordinary day. — Say, Mr Smith, — Andrew asked, glancing at his passenger in the mirror, — do you really go there every day? Isn’t it difficult? — Nowhere else to go, — the pensioner replied quietly, staring out the window. — My wife’s there… been gone a year and a half now. Made her a promise — I’d come every day. Something tightened in Andrew’s chest. He, too, was married, adored his wife. He couldn’t imagine… — Is it far from your place? — Not really, half an hour by bus. Walking it would take me ages, my legs aren’t what they used to be. My pension just about covers the bus fare. Weeks went by. Mr Smith became a fixture of the morning route. Andrew grew so used to seeing him, he’d even wait a couple of minutes if the old man was running late. — No need to wait for me, — Mr Smith said once, cottoning on to Andrew’s little kindness. — The timetable’s there for a reason. — Oh, nonsense, — Andrew waved it off. — A couple of minutes won’t hurt anyone. One morning, Mr Smith wasn’t there. Andrew waited — maybe he was late. But he didn’t come. Or the next day. Or the one after. — Say, that old gent who goes to the cemetery — haven’t seen him in a while, — Andrew remarked to the conductor, Mrs Turner. — Who knows, — she shrugged. — Maybe family’s come visiting, maybe he’s unwell… But Andrew missed him — his quiet ‘thank you’ as he got off, his sad little smile. A week went by. Still no Mr Smith. During his lunch break, Andrew decided to go to the terminus — the cemetery gates. — Excuse me, — he asked the woman manning the entrance, — there was an elderly gentleman, Mr Smith… grey-haired, glasses, always carried a plastic bag. Have you seen him? — Oh, him! — she said, nodding. — Came every single day, to visit his wife. — He hasn’t been in? — Not for about a week. — Has he taken ill? — Nobody’s said anything… He did mention where he lives once, just up the road — Garden Street, number fifteen. And who are you, if you don’t mind me asking? — I’m his bus driver. Gave him a lift every day. Garden Street, number 15. An old block of flats, peeling paintwork. Andrew rang the nearest doorbell. A man in his fifties opened, looking grim. — Who do you want? — I’m looking for Mr Smith. I drive his bus… — Oh, the chap from flat twelve, — the neighbour’s face softened. — He’s in hospital. Had a stroke a week ago. Andrew’s heart dropped. — Which hospital? — The City Hospital, up on Florence Nightingale Avenue. Bad at first, but they say he’s slowly improving. After his shift, Andrew called in at the hospital, found the ward, and asked the nurse. — Mr Smith? Yes, he’s with us. And you are…? — A friend… — Andrew said awkwardly. — Sixth bed. But don’t tire him. Mr Smith lay by the window, pale, awake. On seeing Andrew, he looked puzzled, then his eyes widened. — Andrew? You? How did you…? — Well, I went looking, — Andrew said, setting a bag of fruit on the table. — When you didn’t come, I got worried. — You… worried about me? — Mr Smith’s eyes brimmed. — But I’m no one special… — Now, don’t say that. You’re my regular. I’ve grown used to you; I look forward to seeing you. Mr Smith lay silent, staring up. — I haven’t been to the cemetery in ten days — first time in over a year and a half, — he murmured. — I broke my promise… — Oh now, she’ll understand — your wife, I mean. Illness is illness. — I don’t know… — he shook his head. — I used to visit her every day, tell her the news, about the weather… Now I’m stuck here, and she’s all alone… At that, Andrew knew what he had to do. — Would you like me to go for you? I could visit your wife’s grave, pass on your news — let her know you’ll be back soon… Mr Smith turned towards him, hope and disbelief wrestling in his tired eyes. — You… you’d do that? For someone you hardly know? — Hardly! — Andrew smiled. — Eighteen months of early-morning bus rides? You’re family by now. The next day, on his day off, Andrew went to the cemetery. He found her grave — a photo on the headstone, a kind-looking woman. “Anne Smith, 1952–2024.” He felt awkward, but the words came anyway: — Hello, Mrs Smith. I’m Andrew, your husband’s bus driver. He’s in hospital at the moment, but he’s recovering, and sends his love. He promised he’ll visit again soon… He added how devoted Mr Smith was, how much he missed her. He felt a bit silly, but knew somehow it was the right thing. Back at the hospital, he found Mr Smith much brighter. — I went, — Andrew said simply. — Passed on your message. — And how… how is she? — the old man’s voice trembled. — Everything’s spotless — someone’s left fresh flowers, probably the neighbours. She’s waiting for you, Mr Smith. Mr Smith closed his eyes and wept quietly. — Thank you, son. Thank you… Two weeks later, Mr Smith was discharged. Andrew picked him up outside the hospital. — Shall I see you tomorrow? — Andrew asked as he dropped him off. — You will, — Mr Smith nodded. — Eight o’clock sharp, like always. And he was, next morning in his usual spot. But now, something between driver and passenger had changed — it was more than just a bus journey. — Tell you what, Mr Smith, — Andrew said one day, — how about I take you at weekends in my car? Just as a friend. My wife says if you’re as lovely as you seem, it’s only right to help. — Oh, I couldn’t ask you— — You don’t need to. We’d miss you otherwise. So it became their tradition. Weekdays — the bus; weekends, Andrew drove him himself. Sometimes his wife came too — they all became friends. — You know, — Andrew said to his wife one evening, — I used to think passengers were just passengers. But every face on that bus is a life, a story. — Exactly, — his wife smiled. — I’m glad you noticed. And Mr Smith told them, one day, — After Anne died, I thought life was over. I thought nobody noticed me. Turns out people do care. And that means the world. *** What do you think? Have you ever seen ordinary people perform extraordinary acts of kindness?