20October2025
Dear Diary,
Today the house turned into a battlefield of etiquette and resentment, and I finally had to draw a line in the doorway.
My husbands old school friend, Susan, has taken it upon herself to help around the kitchen, constantly hovering with a sponge and a bottle of AntiGrease she keeps hidden in the back of the cupboard because of its acrid smell. She arrived on a cheap wooden stool, wearing a lavenderprinted apron that seemed to have been sewn especially for her. She moved as if the kitchen had been her lifelong domain.
I was standing in the kitchen doorway, laptop balanced on my knees, my mind already swimming in numbers. As senior accountant, the quarterend close has me buried under spreadsheets, endless calls from HMRC, and the ache for a quiet cup of tea. I didnt ask for a lecture on domestic duties from the best childhood friend of my husband.
Susan, could you step down, please? I managed to say, trying to keep my voice even. I didnt ask for the extractor hood to be cleaned. I have a cleaning rota, and the kitchen will be tackled on Saturday.
She waved me off with a laugh, her red curls bouncing. Oh, throw those schedules away! Dirt doesnt wait for Saturday. James complained yesterday that his allergies flared up. Its all dust and grease. Ill have this place spickspan in a flash, then Ill whip up a stewreal, proper, the kind he loved at school. Youre feeding him processed meals; his stomach will thank you.
I closed my laptop slowly. Jamess allergies are just seasonal hay fever, not a reaction to grease. We havent eaten any readymeals for a month. Susan, put the sponge down. This is my home, my kitchen.
Just then the front door slammed and Jamess cheerful voice called from the hallway, Im home! Smells amazing in hereSusan, what are you cooking? He entered, beaming like a freshly polished kettle, oblivious to the tension tightening the air. Seeing Susan perched on the stool, he laughed, Well done, Susan! Look at that shine! Weve been too busy to get our hands dirty.
My work pays the mortgage, James, I murmured, meeting his eyes. He simply brushed past my comment.
Youre overreacting, Emily. Susans just being a good friend. Shes bored on her holiday, so she dropped by to help. Were family, arent we? he said, patting my shoulder.
Susan finally jumped off the stool, smoothed her short skirt, and gave James a friendly, almost tooloud kiss on the cheek. I know how particular you are about everything being spotless. Emily is juggling her career, so Im stepping in.
I slipped away to the bedroom, heart pounding. I wanted to scream, to smash plates, but I knew that a scene now would paint me as the hysterical wife, especially against a woman everyone called sweet and helpful. James and Susan had been friends since childhood; their mothers were pals, and Susan had always been a background presence in Jamess life. Lately, however, that background had become deafening.
Since her divorce, Susan seemed to have taken it upon herself to save James from domestic chaos. She would appear unannounced, bring containers of food, critique curtain colours, and rearrange vases because Fengshui said it would improve the money flow. James, ever the easygoing bloke, would simply grin and dig into her casseroles, never seeing a problem.
The evening grew worse. I was in my office, reconciling debits and credits, while the kitchen echoed with Susans laughter, clattering dishes, and the smell of stew.
Remember the school trip in Year9? Susan shouted from the kitchen. You couldnt even pitch a tent, and I was there with the pegs!
James roared, You were always the firecracker, Susan!
I felt like a guest in my own flat, only venturing to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Emily, have a seat, have a bite! Susan urged, already in a housecoat shed brought along. The stew is ready, I added a secret ingredientJames has already polished off two bowls.
Thanks, but Im not hungry, I replied, pouring water. James, I need to speak with you, alone.
He waved me off, Come on, love, everyones family here. Susan knows everything.
Sensing a steel edge in my voice, James finally set down his mustard, wiped his mouth, and followed me upstairs. Susan watched us go, a look of concern on her face that felt more like a doctors stare over a patient.
In the bedroom, I closed the door and turned to James.
James, this has to stop.
What do you mean? he asked, genuinely confused.
Susan. Shes everywhereshowing up without asking, touching my things, cooking in my kitchen. I feel like Im a guest in my own house.
Youre exaggerating. She just wants to help. Shes lonely, thats all. And yes, the stew is brilliant you havent cooked much lately.
Im not cooking because Im closing the financial year! I earn the money, James. I didnt hire Susan as a housekeeper. If I need help, Ill call a cleaning servicesomeone who comes, does the job, and leaves. Susan is staking a claim on our home.
What claim? Weve been friends since we were kids! Shes like a sister to me.
Sisters dont critique my apron, call my oilslicked hood a grease slab, or decide Im a dry biscuit. Shes trying to make herself the perfect wife, pushing me aside.
Youre just stressed from work, James said, attempting to hug me. You see enemies everywhere. Susans just bluntshe says what she thinks. Give it a bit of time, shell settle down.
I stepped back, exhausted. The conversation went nowhere; James seemed blind when his friend was involved.
The next three days were relatively calm. I lingered at work longer to avoid Susan, but on Friday a migraine forced me home early. I unlocked the front door, yearning only for my bed, the curtains drawn, and silence.
The flat was eerily quiet. I slipped off my shoes, tiptoed to the living roomempty, yet the air was heavy with Susans perfume. I made my way to the bedroom, the door ajar. Pushing it open, I froze.
Susan was standing in front of the open builtin wardrobe, rearranging Jamess shirts, sweaters, even his underwear, humming to herself.
What on earth are you doing? I croaked, voice hoarse with fury.
She startled, a pile of tshirts spilling from her hands. For a split second fear flashed across her face, then she put on a look of righteous indignation.
Oh, Emily! Youre sneaking around like a mouse. You gave me a fright!
I asked: what are you doing in my wardrobe? I stepped forward, feeling the migraine ease as a cold anger rose.
Im putting things in order! James complained his shirts were wrinkled, so Im sorting them by colour and season. And I tossed a couple of your cardigans in the bintheyre old and pilled. James should be proud to have a wife who looks like a queen at home.
On the floor lay a black rubbish bag, its contents spilling out: the soft cardigan I love to curl up in on cold evenings.
That was the final straw. I grabbed the cardigan, pressed it to my chest, and turned to Susan.
Out. Now.
What? Youre losing it? she sneered. Im just tidying up, and youre sending me away? Ill tell James youre a hysterical, ungrateful wife!
James will come back to an empty flat if you dont leave this instant, I snapped. Youve crossed every boundarymy bedroom, my clothes, my personal space. This isnt help; its an invasion.
Im doing it for James! He needs comfort!
He needs a wife, not a meddling fly! I stepped closer; she flinched. I see what youre doing. Youre trying to take my place, first the kitchen, now the living room, now the bedroom. This is my house.
Youre just a drycalculator, Emily! James is bored with you, he needs warmth!
If you really knew what he needed, youd be his partner, not his pantryassistant, I snarled. He chose me. He lives with me. Youre the extra.
Susan gasped, eyes wide, then fled, grabbing her bag and slipping on her shoes.
Youll regret this! she hissed as she vanished down the hallway.
I slammed the front door shut, leaned against the cold metal, and closed my eyes. My head throbbed, but a strange relief washed over me, as if Id finally thrown out years of accumulated rubbish.
An hour later James returned, humming, but his smile faded when he saw my expression and the sudden silence.
Emily? Wheres Susan? She said she was bringing a surprise, tidying up.
I sat on the sofa, the black bag of my discarded items in front of me.
Susan isnt here anymore, James. She wont be.
He frowned, removing his coat.
What do you mean wont be? Did you have a fight? Over something trivial?
Its not trivial, I said, pointing to the bag. She entered our bedroom, rummaged through your underwear, threw my cardigan away, called me a dry biscuit, and claimed that was help. Thats not help, James. Thats intrusion.
He knelt, peered into the bag, his face changing as he saw my favourite cardigan.
She threw my things away herself?
Yes. She decided she could dictate what I wear and how we live. Ive endured her comments, her cooking, her constant presence for months. Today she crossed the line into our intimate space.
He sank into the armchair, covering his face with his hands.
I didnt know, he whispered. I thought she just wanted to iron his shirts
Its more than that, I said, voice steadier now. Either we live as a family without outsiders, or you keep living with Susans stew. But not with me.
He was quiet for a long minute, looking at the bag, then at mepale, exhausted, but with a fire I hadnt seen in ages. He remembered a text Susan had sent earlier that morning: Your wifes off to work again, didnt even make breakfast. Ill drop by later and sort things. It had seemed caring then; now it felt like betrayal.
Emily, Im sorry, he finally said. I was blind. Im an idiot. Susans always been lively, but this is too much.
He dialed his phone, put it on speaker.
Susan? Stop, please, he said sharply. I know what you did. You have no right in our wardrobe, no right to throw my wifes clothes away. From now on youre not to come here without an invitation. I think we need a break in contact.
Susans voice cracked on the other end, What? Youre ditching me because of a cardigan?
I said enough, James replied. Our home, my wifes belongingsoff limits. He hung up, the room falling into a calm that felt like fresh air.
I exhaled, shoulders finally relaxing. Thank you, I whispered.
James slid onto the sofa beside me, pulling me close.
This is forgiveness, isnt it? he said. I was wrong. I thought more people made life brighter, but a crowd in the bedroom isnt what we need.
Especially in the bedroom, I chuckled.
Ill sort that bag, put everything back where it belongs. And that cardiganI’ll keep it safe. You look wonderful in it.
What about the stew? I teased. You love a proper boneinthemarrow broth.
He kissed my temple. Ill endure the stew, but from now on well have dumplings in peace, no one lecturing us.
Since that day Susan vanished from our lives. She sent a few forlorn messages on social media, but James replied curtly, and she eventually found a new project.
I hired a discreet housekeeper, a gentle woman who comes once a week, leaves the flat smelling of lemons and nothing but clean.
Last night, over a homemade lasagne that took me half an evening, James remarked, Our extractor hood could use a clean.
I tensed.
What?
Nothing, he laughed, grabbing a sponge. Ill take care of it. No Susan needed.
I looked at him, smiling, realizing that sometimes preserving a marriage simply means closing the door on those who try to walk in with their own agenda. And thats perfectly okay.
Emily.
