Well, at least now you can finally breathe in here! Before, it was like a crypt, honestly, came the unmistakably smug voice from the kitchenone Susan Brown would have recognised anywhere.
She froze in the hallway, heavy bags of fruit and veg from her countryside allotment still in hand. The scent of ripe Bramley apples and fresh dill was swallowed by a pungent waft of chemical polish and some brash, unfamiliar perfume. Susan set her bags softly on the floor, dread prickling at her back. The key had slid into the lock too easily, and the comforting creak from the floorboard near the door was gone.
She stepped into the flat and gazed around. The hallway was transformed. Gone was the sturdy old coat stand, lovingly crafted years ago by her late husband, Thomas. In its place, some cold metal hooks, the sort youd see in a GPs surgery, jutted out from the wall. The carved wooden mirror shed checked herself in for the past three decades was replaced by an unframed, soulless rectangle.
Susans heart knocked against her ribs. She went to the lounge and gasped, hand over mouth.
The room lay hollow. Not empty, strictly speaking, but all that made it feel like her home, her memories, was stripped away. Where once stood the solid oak dresser housing her treasured Staffordshire china and wedding set, there was nothing. The bookshelveshome to fifty years worth of novels from Dickens to rare Penguin editionswere gone. Even her beloved rocking chair by the window had vanished.
Instead, a low, grey sofa like a giant paving slab hunched in the centre. Above it, a huge jet-black telly loomed, and a shaggy white rug sprawled across the floortotally out of place, like a snowdrift on the high street. The walls were painted a sterile, pale grey.
Oh, hi, Susan! Back early, are you? sang her daughter-in-law, Charlotte, emerging from the kitchen in a short dressing gown, clutching a mug of something green. We werent expecting you till this evening! Was the train on time?
Her son Mark followed, eyes lowered and shuffling in slippers, the picture of guilt and discomfort.
Where Susans voice shook as she gestured helplessly, where is everything?
Everything? Charlotte fluttered her long eyelash extensions innocently. Oh, you mean your old furniture? Weve done a surprise! A makeover! While you were out slaving in that allotment, we sorted things here. Looks great, doesnt it? Bright, spacious! Minimalismthats all the rage now.
Where are my things? Susans knees wobbled. She looked at Mark. Mark, wheres your fathers dresser? Where are the books? The sewing machine?
Mark cleared his throat, feigning composure.
Mum, honestly, please dont worry. Wegot rid of it all.
Got rid of it? Did you take it to the allotment? The shed?
Straight to the tip, Susan, Charlotte chimed in, sipping her smoothie. Honestly, what do you need all that clutter for? The dresser was falling apart! It just gathered dust. And bookswho reads paper books these days? Its all digital. Just more dust and mites. We couldnt breathe with all that around.
Susans vision blurred. She clung to the door frame.
To the tip? she whispered. Dads library? The sewing machine I used to mend your curtains and repair trousers with, Mark? The china Thomas and I carried back from our honeymoon in Cornwall, cherished all these years?
Oh please, that china is pure old tatantiques nobody wants! These days its all about simplicity: IKEA, Scandinavian style. And your old machinewell, it was foot-operated, a proper relic, heavy as lead! We could barely heft it out, even with the removal lads. Mum, you always said the flat was cramped, so we made room. Cleared out all the visual clutter.
Visual clutter, Susan repeated, as if tasting poison. Did you ask me? This is my flat, Charlotte. Mine and Marks. But those things were mine.
Here we go again, Charlotte rolled her eyes. We spent good money on this. Even maxed the credit card to get these pricey paints and wallpaper, and all we get is complaints. Mark, I told you shed never appreciate it. That generation are unhealthily attached to stuffits a syndrome, honestly.
Mark finally looked up.
Mum, dont start. It was all just old junk. Look, we’ve got you a new sofaits orthopaedic. Youll sleep much better.
Susan searched his face but found no remorse or understanding, just a desperate wish to escape this conversation and return to their newly easy life. Hed always been easily swayed, first by her, now by Charlotte. Soft as dough, Mark was whatever his wife moulded him into.
When did you throw it out? Susan steadied herself.
About three days ago, when we started the redecorating, Charlotte waved a hand. Booked a big skip, tossed the lot in. Its long gone now, so dont go hunting and making a scene with the neighbours.
Susan made for her bedroom. Or what was left of it. The designers had been in here too. Her cosy sanctuary with its chest of drawers and dressing table was now just a colourless cubicle. Even her button tin from her youth had disappeared, along with the family photo albums.
Did you even throw away the albums? she called out. Dads photos?
You mean those dusty old cards? Charlotte yelled back. Well digitise them one day, if we need to. The papers been recycled, together with those crusty magazines from the ’80s. Its for the environment.
Susan sat on the unfamiliar, alien sofa and felt a painful emptiness. They hadnt just thrown her things out. Theyd binned thirty years of marriage, every precious memory and joy shed preservedall written off as clutter.
She didnt cry. The tears had dried up, solidifying inside into a burning, prickly knot. She listened to Charlotte berating Mark over the wrong milk and raving about the apartments new positive energy flow. She quietly slipped away for the night, not joining them for dinner. Instead, she lay in the darkness, thinking. The flat was hers. Mark only lived here by her graceall to save for a mortgage, which, despite three years of free living, theyd never actually started. There was always something: new phones, another holiday in Spain, and now the renovation. Bills were paid from Susans pensionher way of helping the children.
The next morning, Susan wore an expression of stone as she walked into the kitchen. Charlotte was frying something health-conscious, humming along.
Morning! Fancy some breakfast? Im making pancakes, but theyre sugar-free, on stevia and brown rice flour. Very healthy.
Just a cup of tea for me. Susan nodded. Is Mark at work?
Darted out early. Big deadline. Im working from home todaya self-development webinar about decluttering.
Splendid. Decluttering is important. Charlotte… Ill be staying with my sister in Reading for a couple of days. Need to calm my nerves and steady the blood pressure.
Oh, marvellous! A change of scene will do you good, Charlotte beamed, eager to have the newly designed flat to herself. Dont worryI’ll keep things tidy.
Susan packed lightly and, before leaving, asked, Youve got your keys?
Courseboth me and Mark. We didnt change the locks, just oiled them.
Right then. Take care, both of you.
She genuinely visited her sister, but for only a few hours. She needed to buy time until Charlotte inevitably sauntered off for her Thursday manicure or pilates session.
Susan returned at four, flat empty as predicted. She changed into an old work apron, tied a scarf round her hair, and fetched the big builders sacks from the cupboarda corner miraculously unscathed by Charlottes reforms.
She headed straight for the young couples room, which shed always considered private. But there were no lines anymore. Charlotte had erased those when she treated Susans life like rubbish.
The room overflowed with Charlottes treasures. Endless cosmetics, creams costing more than a month’s groceries, countless bottles, sprays, gadgets, a giant lamp for selfies. Designer shoes, barely worn, handbags lined up as trophies.
Susan murmured, Visual clutter, savouring Charlottes own words.
Into the sacks went creams and serumsChanel, Dior, unpronounceable Asian brands, half-used or full. She didnt stop to check. She was decluttering.
The wardrobe groaned under the weight of barely-worn dresses and endless jeans, blouses still with the tags attached.
Dust collectors, she declared. All synthetic. Environmentally unfriendly.
Dresses, shirts, handbags, shoeseverything was swept up, handled with a cold, methodical efficiency. Marks more modest shirts and suits, Susan spared. But Charlottes empire of overconsumption was wiped clean.
Next, the knickknacks: ceramic Buddhas, scented candles, motivational posters, dreamcatchers.
Rubbish, Susan muttered. An unhealthy attachment to things. Lets sort that out.
After two hours, the young couples room was clean and echoing. Left were only the bed and an empty wardrobe.
Susan lined the hallway with fifteen big sacks. She didnt throw them in a skipshe wasnt a vandal. She called for a man with a van and sent them to her brothers garage in Oxford. Let Charlottes things gather dust there for a while.
She mopped the floors, steeped a pot of tea, and sat with her new bookan actual, proper paperback from her sisterbreathing in the fresh uncertainty.
Charlotte was the first home, swinging in, bags in hand, humming the latest tune. She seemed surprised to see Susan.
Oh! Back already? I thought youd be at your sisters for another day. Everything all right?
Yes, Charlotte. I just felt inspired by your advice to declutter.
Charlotte shot her a quizzical look, but went to change. Seconds later, a piercing shriek rang out, surely testing the strength of their double-glazing.
Where are they?! Where are my things?! Wheres my make-up and coat?!
Susan stirred her tea. No need to shout, dear. Ive done a spot of tidying. Cleared all the visual clutter. You were rightthe flat really was suffocating. Too much junk, too many dust collectors! Who needs twenty handbags? Its not healthy. I thought Id help you let go, set the energy free.
You you threw out my things?! Charlotte sputtered. Do you even know their value? One serum alone is more than your pension! Youve lost your mind. Thats theft! Ill call the police!
Go ahead, Susan replied calmly. Lets see what they say. Maybe theyll want to talk about what you did to my belongingsmy fathers library, my wedding china, all those memories. You called them rubbish. I looked at your bits and bobs and saw the same. Chemical-ladenno good for anyone.
Just then, Mark walked in, sensing the storm. Charlotte sobbed hysterically, mascara down her cheeks. Susan sat, unreadable as a sphinx.
Mum, did you really?
I certainly did, Mark. A soul-deep clear out. Now your room is light and spacious. Youll love the new energy.
You had no right! Charlotte screamed. Those were mine!
And the library was mine. So was the dresser, so was the sewing machine. Did you ask me? No, you made decisions for me, as if my life were disposable. Now, we’re even.
Where are my things? hissed Charlotte. If they’re gone, I’ll sue you!
Theyre not at the tip, Susan smiled. Unlike you, Im not a savage. Theyre somewhere safe. But the address? Well, youll have to earn that.
What do you mean? Mark asked.
I mean its time for you both to pack up whats leftpassports, toothbrushes, essentialsand move out. Go stay at a hotel, your mums, or a rental. I dont mind where. Im changing the locks in an hour. The locksmith is downstairs.
We dont have anywhere to go, Mark whined. We were trying to save for a deposit!
Now youve got just the motivation. As for your things, Charlotte, youll get them back when you return whats mine.
But we chucked yoursyou cant get them back! Charlotte shrieked.
Then your things can share the same fate, or you can replace them. However you want. When my library and sewing machine return, so will your handbags and creams.
It was a bluff, of course. Charlottes things were perfectly safe in Oxford. But seeing her face was its own satisfaction.
You witch! Charlotte spat. Come on, Mark! Were leaving. Well get a proper flatbetter than this! You enjoy your empty flat, you old bat!
They were gone within forty minutes, suitcases clattering, Charlotte cursing everything. Mark didnt dare meet his mothers gaze.
After the door slammed, Susan called the locksmith, as arranged. The locks were changed in no time.
Alone in her echoing, grey-walled flat, Susan felt a strange relief. The burden shed carried seemed to fall away.
The next day she went online: Wanted: Old English furniture, books, sewing machine. Happy to collect or pay small fee. She was inundatedpeople all over the country had things to give, often free for pick-up.
A month later, her home brimmed with new-old life. Not the same dresser, but one very like it. Not the same books, but familiar classics. Another sturdy old sewing machineanother ‘Podolsk’, faithful as ever. Susan papered the walls in warm, creamy flowers, laid a real woollen carpet, painted over the cold greys with homey beige.
Charlottes precious bags and bottles were returned two weeks later, as Mark came by alone to fetch them, apologising in a small voice.
Mum, Im sorry. Were paying over the odds for a new place. Charlottes in hysterics.
Part of growing up, love. Its not cheap, she said. But no, you cant move back in. I love you both, but this is my home. I want to fill it with things that matter to me. Build your own homewith whatever style you like.
Mark gathered their bags and left.
Susan sat in her revived lounge, settled at her familiar old machine, a bolt of bright curtain fabric in her lap. The reassuring chug of the mechanism mixed with the sunshine coming through the windows, and her heart felt light.
Sometimes, you only learn to value what you have when its gone. And sometimes, you find peace by simply showing the door to those who dont value you at all. Only then do you create the true harmony a home deserves.
