I have often thought back to that summer in a modest terraced house on the outskirts of Birmingham, when I finally reclaimed the spare set of keys from my motherinlaw after finding her asleep in my own bed.
Darling, youre making a mountain out of a molehill, Oliver would protest, his voice slipping into a high falsetto as he paced the kitchen, his fingers clutching the back of a wooden chair as if it might steady his nerves. She was just an old woman looking for a rest. Whats the crime in that? Shes not a stranger; shes my mother.
I stood by the sash window, arms crossed, a tremor coursing through me that I tried desperately to hide. The image from an hour earlier still replayed in my mind: I had left work early because a vicious migraine had seized me, turned the key in the bedroom door and found Mrs. Pattersonmy motherinlawreclining on the double bed we shared, a thin quilt pulled over her shoulders, dressed only in her nightgown. She clutched my pillow, a halffinished cup of tea sat on the nightstand, and a few crumbs of biscuit were scattered across the crisp, expensive satin sheets.
Oliver, can you hear me? I whispered, each word sharp as steel. She was in our bed. In her underwear. Eating biscuits. And we never invited her. She walked in with her own key and made herself a nap. Is that normal?
She must have had a spike in her blood pressure, he tried to defend, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. Shed just come back from the market, bags heavy, felt faint. She needed water, felt ill. What else could she do, lie on the hallway mat?
Why not the living room? We have a lovely, soft settee there. Why did she go straight to our private sanctuary, where even the cat isnt allowed? And why did she strip down? If someone is ill they call a doctor, not stage a stripshow in anothers bed.
At that moment the bathroom door swung open and Mrs. Patterson emerged, already dressed in a robeironically my own bathrobelooking indignant. She clutched the robes cuff as if it were a badge of honour.
I hear everything! she declared, making a beeline for the kitchen table and perching on the chair she claimed as her own. And it pains me, truly. I come to you with all my heart, I look after you, and you repay me with ingratitude.
I turned slowly to face her, the migraine still pounding, but anger surged stronger than any painkiller could.
Mrs. Patterson, could you explain what you call care? Is it entering our home unannounced when were not there, or is it sleeping in our bed?
She pursed her lips, glanced at her son for support.
Oliver, look at her. She makes a monster of me. I was just passing by, thought Id pop in, water the geraniumsMarions geraniums always wiltthen my head went fuzzy. I stepped into the bedroom because its cooler, the airconditioner hums. I was hot, so I slipped out of my robe. It was only a moment.
And the biscuits? I asked. Do they help the pressure?
I found the biscuits in your cupboard! Sugar fell, I had to pick it up! Dont scold me, dear. I gave your husband a life, Im entitled to a cup of tea in his house.
You forget, Mrs. Patterson, that this house belongs to both of us. We pay the mortgage together, we set the rules, Marion said, placing her palm flat on the table. Here are the keys. She slid the duplicate across.
A ringing silence fell over the kitchen. Oliver froze by the fridge, his steps halted. Mrs. Pattersons face flushed.
What? she repeated, as if she hadnt heard.
Give me back the spare set of keys to our flat. Right now.
Are you mad? she shrieked. Oliver! Youll let her treat me like this? Im his mother! What if theres a fire? A flood? I must always have the keys! Its a safety law!
Well manage on our own, Marion snapped. You violated my privacy. You used the keys not for emergencies but to meddle in our lives. I cant trust you any longer. The keys stay on the table.
No way! Mrs. Patterson clutched the bag on the stool. This is my sons home and Ill come whenever I like! You wont push me out! Oliver, say something!
Olivers face turned a deep crimson. He glanced between his furious wife and his mother, who was already rummaging for a bottle of cod liver oil.
Marion, perhaps we neednt be so harsh, he muttered. Mum meant well, shell be more careful. Why take the keys? Itll be useful if we ever forget or lose them
If you dont stand with me now, Oliver, Marion said, her voice a soft whisper that sent a chill down his spine, tomorrow Ill change the locks. The day after Ill file for divorce. I never signed up to live in a hallway. I want to return home and know that no one has slept in my bed, no one has used my dishes, no one has rummaged through my things. Choose: be the man of the house or remain a mothers boy, but without me.
Olivers gaze fell on his mother. She stood motionless, a bottle in her hand, waiting for her son to side with her as always. Yet memories of the previous week flickered through his mindhow she had tossed an important cheque into the rubbish while tidying up his paperwork, how she had rearranged the sitting room furniture on a whim of Fengshui, and how Marion had wept then, helpless.
Mum, he said quietly, hand over the keys.
What?! she gasped, as if I were banning her from the world. Youre throwing me out? After all this fuss?
Mum, youve overstepped. Sleeping in our bed is too much. Marions right. This is our home. Please return the keys, dont make a sin of it.
She stared at him with a long, piercing look, then, with trembling hands, pulled a ring of keys from her bagone key bore a tiny rabbit charm Oliver had once given herand flung them onto the table with a clatter.
Take that! she spat. My feet wont tread here any longer! Forget your mother, youve swapped me for rags! When I die, dont come to my grave with your hypocritical tears!
She seized her bag, lifted her chin, and fled the kitchen, slamming the front door so hard the plaster around the doorway crumbled.
Oliver grunted, Are you happy now? Her blood pressure will spike, shell need an ambulance, and Ill be to blame.
Youll be calm, not guilty, Marion replied, slipping the keys into her pocket. And Ill be calm too. Thank you, Oliver. It was hard for you, I know.
Hard isnt the word, he muttered. Shell keep calling, cursing for months.
Well get through it, Marion said, slipping an arm around his shoulders. At least the house is finally ours. Only ours.
But the story did not end there. Marion, ever prudent, knew Mrs. Patterson would not give up so easily. The returned keys might not be the only copies. Had she made a duplicate of the duplicate?
The next day, taking a halfday off, Marion called a locksmith and had the lock replaced, keeping Oliver in the dark to spare his nerves. The lock jammed, had to be changed, she later told him.
Three days later, on a lazy Saturday, they awoke around ten to the sound of metal grinding at the front door. Someone was trying to turn a key, muttering in frustration, then pausing, then trying again.
What are you waiting for? Oliver whispered.
Nothing, Marion replied.
They tiptoed to the door, peering through the peephole to see only darknesssomeone had covered the glass with a finger.
Its you, isnt it? a familiar, irritated voice called from outside. Stuck? Wrong key? The one with the red ribbon?
Marion smiled triumphantly at Oliver. He turned ashen.
She made a copy, she said, barely moving her lips. She knew Id demand the keys and prepared for it. She must have more than one.
A phone rang behind the door.
Hello, Lucy? Mrs. Pattersons voice blurted out, unabashed. Im standing at the young couples door. Thought Id surprise them with pancakes, set the table, make coffee. But the key wont turn! Must be those new locks! The audacity of a mother building barricades!
Oliver covered his face with his hands, pressed his forehead against the cold metal, mortified.
Shall we open it? Marion asked.
We must. Otherwise shell make a fuss in the whole block.
Oliver yanked the latch and flung the door wide. Mrs. Patterson, still fumbling for the right angle, tumbled in, a tray of pancakes under a towel in one hand, a phone and the keyring in the other.
Oh! Youre awake! she exclaimed, unfazed. You changed the lock?
We did, Oliver said icily, a tone Marion had never heard from him before. We changed it deliberately so there are no more surprises.
What surprises? she cried, feigning innocence. 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, Marion retorted. Do you understand how that looks?
Its not hidden! Its an old set I forgot about, found in my winter coat! Mrs. Patterson stammered. And Im not sneaking! I just want to bring breakfast to bed!
We dont want your breakfast, Mum. We want privacy. You lied about giving the keys back and now youre testing the spare. This isnt acceptable.
Its what I need! Im angry! Live as you wish, you little scamps! Im being kind, and you she flung the pancake tray onto the hallway table.
Just then, their neighbour, Aunt Verasharptongued and everwatchfulpopped out of the lift shaft, her rubbish bag in hand. She paused at the open doorway.
Oh, Tessa! Good morning! Whats all the noise? I thought someone was being robbed.
Theyre robbing me, Vera, robbing! Mrs. Patterson wailed. My sons been taken from me, locks changed, I cant get in! I brought pancakes and they turn me away!
Ay, dear, Vera chuckled, squinting. I heard you fiddling with keys for ten minutes. Thought perhaps a burglar. So youre just visiting without ringing? With your own key?
Whats wrong with that? Hes my son!
I dont barge into my nieces house. Young couples have their own lives. Maybe theyre naked and Im just here with pancakesawkward! A conscience is needed, you know.
Mrs. Patterson flushed scarlet, her complaints now public. She slammed the lift button, turned her back on Oliver and Marion, and rode up.
Oliver snatched the pancake tray from the hallway.
Mum, take the pancakes. We dont want them.
Throw them away! Or give them to the dogs! I did this for you, and you
The lift doors closed with a thud.
Back in the flat, they locked the new, sturdy lock, now with only two sets of keys.
The pancakes smell good, Oliver said ruefully, placing the tray on the kitchen counter.
We wont eat them, Marion declared. Who knows what she might have slipped into them as revenge.
Oliver laughed, first quietly, then heartily, tears streaming. The tension of the past days finally dissolved.
Youre right. Forget her. Ill fry some eggs instead. In our kitchen, for ourselves, with no audience.
Fine, Marion smiled, feeling the migraine that had lingered all morning finally lift.
They ate together, planning the weekend. Mrs. Patterson did not call for weeks. Oliver was tempted to ring her, but Marion gently stopped him.
Give her time. Shell try to win by 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 the motherinlaw phoned at work, dry and businesslike, asking for a lift for the cat to the vet. Oliver obliged, returned home calm.
Hows it going? Marion asked.
Fine. She was quiet on the way, then at the end she said, Tell Marian I have a cucumber pickle recipe you asked for last year. If you need it, have her write it down.
A white flag? Marion raised an eyebrow.
Seems so. She also asked which brand of tea we drinkshe liked the one we had in the bedroom.
Marion shook her head. Ill buy her tea and a jar of pickles, but the keys, Olivershell never have them again. Never.
Never, Oliver affirmed. My wifes comfort and my own peace are worth more than Mums whims. If we need flowers, well water them ourselves, or get an automatic system.
From then on their home settled into a quiet peace. Mrs. Patterson still offered unsolicited advice, but now only over the phone or during scheduled visits she arranged in advance. She learned that the door to her sons life now opened only from the inside, and that a polite knock was far better than a forced entry under the guise of maternal concern.
Marion finally relaxed in her own flat. She replaced the bedroom linens with fresh, elegant sets, bought a new robe, and knew that when she returned home she would be greeted by silence, order, and the untouched sanctuary of her little personal haven. For boundaries are not walls that divide people, but doors that let love in at a safe distance.
