Emily Clarke is fuming as she watches the kitchen being turned inside out while shes at work.
James, Im begging you, just make sure Mum doesnt start redecorating the kitchen. Please. You know how much that renovation cost me and how Im terrified of anyone touching the surfaces, Emily says, standing in the hallway, nervously twiddling the strap of her handbag.
James, finishing his morning coffee, waves his hand cheerfully.
Emily, why are you getting so worked up? Mums only here for a week while the plumbers sort out the pipes at her place. Shes not our enemy, is she? Shell just make a stew, and you wont have to stand at the stove in the evening.
Stew is fine, but I need you to stop her from improving the space. Remember how, in our flat before, she thought the plain wallpaper was boring and stuck a dolphin border in the hallway? I spent a week scrubbing off the glue.
Leave the past behind. Mum just wants to make things cosy. Hurry up, youll be late. Im working from home today, Ive got it under control.
Emily sighs heavily, plants a quick kiss on Jamess cheek and heads out. Her heart is in knots. The kitchen is her sanctuary, her pride, her power base. For three months she and the designer have debated the perfect shade of matte graphite for the cabinets, the natural stone countertop, the hidden hardware, the minimalist lines. No extra jars, no fridge magnets, no gaudy towels. That sleek, spare look cost a small fortune, and any scratch feels like a personal wound.
Margaret Harris, Emilys motherinlaw, a loud, energetic woman with an unshakable idea of what looks good, arrived yesterday evening. She swept through the flat and declared that the young couples place looks sterile, like a hospitalclean but nothing to stare at. Emily kept quiet, chalking it up to travel fatigue.
The workday drags on. Emily keeps reaching for her phone to call James, but pulls back: hes an adult, he promised to watch. Besides, she has a crucial report due, and worrying about home feels unprofessional.
At lunch she finally gives in.
Hows Mum?
Fine, James answers a little too brightly, tension lurking in his voice. Mums uh doing a bit of her own thing. Shes baked a pie. The smells filling the whole block!
A pie? Emily tenses. James, did she turn on the oven? Did she fiddle with the touch panel? Theres a safety lock.
Shes sorted it, shes clever. Emily, Ive got a Zoom meeting, lets talk this evening, okay? Kiss!
The call ends abruptly. Emily stares at the phone, the phrase doing a bit of her own thing swirling in her mind. With Margaret it could mean anything from washing dishes to rearranging furniture.
The rest of the day feels like walking on pins and needles. She imagines oil stains on the matte cabinets, chips in the stone, melted plastic boards. When she finally steps out of the lift, a wall of fried onion, yeasty dough and a hint of bleach hits her. She fumbles with the door key.
Im home! she shouts, kicking off her shoes.
Silence answers. Only the cheerful clatter of Margarets voice and the clink of cutlery drift from the kitchen. Emily walks down the corridor; the kitchen door stands ajar. She steps through and drops her bag in shock.
Her kitchen her sleek graphite haven has vanished.
The first thing she notices is coloureverywhere, loud, unapologetic colour.
The immaculate stone countertop is covered with a bright orange tablecloth printed with giant sunflowers. The edges hang in uneven waves, draping over the lower drawers.
Oh, Emily, youre here! Margaret beams, wrapped in a flamboyant floral apron shes never owned before. Were having a snack feast! Ive been kneading dough since five in the morning. Look, Ive even made some sausages.
Emily cant get a word out. Her eyes dart over the disaster.
The previously spotless grey cabinets now sport vinyl stickershandsized butterflies in pink, blue and lime, stuck haphazardly on every door.
Margaret? Emily croaks, feeling her left eye twitch. What is this?
Where? Margaret follows Emilys gaze and smiles. Those butterflies? Picked them up on the way home from the market. Brightened things up! Your place was all grey and gloomy, like a crypt. Now its summer, its joy! And James likes it, doesnt he, love?
James appears in the doorway, looking guilty and a little ashamed, his eyes flicking to his socks.
Mum, I told you Emily might not like this he mutters.
Dont worry about it! Margaret exclaims, waving her hands. Ive added some cosy touches. A pricey kitchen needs a soul. It felt empty, cold.
Emily steps toward the window. Her favourite Romanstyle curtains in wet asphalt are gone, replaced by a ruffled white voile with gold embroidered swans.
My curtains Emily whispers. Where are they?
Your curtains are in the wash, Margaret waves a sizzling pancake. They were dusty, grey. I brought my own, kept them in my suitcase just in case. Look how bright everything looks now, like a palace!
Emily lifts the edge of the sunflower cloth and finds a sticky blot underneath.
Why a cloth? Thats natural stoneyou cant cover it
The stone is cold, your elbows would freeze! I rolled out the dough, didnt want to mess it up, so I covered it with the cloth and wiped it clean. Bought it at the budget store for pennies, looks completely different now.
A surge of anger rises inside her. She turns to the fridgea twometre steel behemoth she never let anyone touch. Its now a magnet board, covered in pig, cat and Golden Ring town magnets.
Where did these? Emily points tremblingly.
These are mine! Brought them from home. Thought they were just gathering dust. The fridge is big, plenty of space for memories. Heres one from our trip to Brighton when James was five.
Emily closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. She must stay calm, not say too much. This is Jamess mother; she means well, she thinks.
James, Emily says in an icy tone. Can I have a word in the bedroom?
James hurries to her, and Margaret shouts after them:
Dont whisper, dear, itll freeze the room! Come sit down, the foods hot!
In the bedroom Emily slams the door and leans against it.
You promised to keep an eye on her, she says.
Emily, I was on a call, headphones in, client meeting I went for a drink of water and then the butterflies were already up. I told her Mum, Emily might get upset, and she said Dont worry, its a surprise. I couldnt take them down in front of her, shed be hurt!
Hurting me? She turned my kitchen into a country fair! Ruffles! Sunflowers! Butterflies! Do you realise those stickers could damage the finish? The glue could eat the softtouch surface!
Ill clean it, Emily, Ill what?
What about the rails? Have you seen what shes done?
I havent, what?
I havent seen either, but Im scared to look. Ask her to put everything back, now.
I cant, James sighs. Shes mum, shes trying. Shes been up since five making dough. If I say its terrible, her blood pressure will spike. Shes so paranoid. Lets wait a week. Shell leave, well fix it quietly.
A week? Emily widens her eyes. I cant spend a week drinking tea surrounded by golden swans and plastic butterflies! My eye is twitching!
Please, for me. Ill buy you two spa vouchers. Just dont make a scene. Mums already stressed about her own renovation. She needs to feel useful.
Jamess pleading looks desperate; his fear of conflict softens her anger into a dull irritation.
Fine. I wont make a scene now. Ill take the cloth off. Ill put the curtains back tonight. Ill say Im allergic to synthetic fabrics.
They return to the kitchen. Margaret has already set the table. On the orange cloth sit steaming bowls of beef stew, and a mountain of sausage rolls in the centre.
Well, dig in, you two workhorses! Margaret commands. Want some sour cream?
Emily sits, appetite gone, though the aroma is tempting. She picks up a spoon, trying not to stare at the smiling caterpillar sticker right in front of her.
Margaret, thank you for dinner, she begins diplomatically. But about the décor I have a very specific taste. I like things empty.
Thats not a taste, thats depression, love, Margaret snaps, biting into a roll. A young woman should live surrounded by beauty. Flowers, frillsthats feminine energy. Your kitchen looked like an operating theatre. A man cant feel comfortable in that. Right, James?
James chokes on stew.
Mum, why I liked it. It felt stylish.
Stylish? Stylish is when the soul sings. Right now it sings. By the way, I tidied the bathroom too.
Emilys spoon clatters on the plate, splashing stew onto the sunflower cloth.
The bathroom? she whispers.
Yes, all your shampoos were in identical bottles, impossible to tell which is which. I labeled them, laid down fluffy pink mats for the feet, and replaced the glass partition with a proper curtain of dolphins.
Emily rises slowly.
Thanks, it was delicious, she says, staring at the wall. Im going to lie down. My head hurts.
She leaves the kitchen, hearing Margaret whisper loudly to James:
See? I told you shes exhausted. Nothing makes her happy, not even this pretty mess. She needs vitamins.
The bathroom is even worse than the kitchen. The sleek, whitemarble room now resembles a nursery. A toxicpink shag rug covers the floor. On expensive soap dispensers, Margaret has written in a permanent marker: FOR HEAD, FOR BODY, SOAP. The glass partition is draped with a cheap polyethylene curtain covered in blue dolphins, fastened to a bar that pierces the pricey tiles.
Emily sits on the tub edge, covering her face with her hands. She wants to cry, not from grief but from helplessness. Its not just bad taste; its an invasionbrazen, unapologetic, cloaked in care.
After ten minutes she hears footsteps. James peeks in.
How are you, Emily?
I want her to leave, Emily says quietly. Not in a week. Tomorrow.
Where will she go? Shes got the renovation, no water
Into a hotel. Ill pay for a decent room with breakfast. I cant live in this circus, James. Shes ruined my things. Did you see the dispensers? Marked with a marker! That cant be cleaned!
Well wipe them with spirit, dont panic.
Its not the spirit! Its that she doesnt respect me. She treats my home like her playground, marking territory like a cat!
A sudden crash, shattering glass, and Margarets shriek tear through the kitchen.
Emily and James exchange a glance and race back.
Margaret stands in the middle of the kitchen, clutching her chest. On the floor, surrounded by water and broken shards, lies the heavy oak shelf that had hung above the table, now collapsed with the flower pots she apparently tried to place there.
I I only wanted to water a plant she stammers. I thought the bracket was solid I just wanted a geranium
Emily looks at the wall. The brackets are ripped out, leaving yawning holes in the plaster, exposing raw concrete.
The shelf was decorative, meant for a couple of picture frames, not for three pots and soil, Emily says calmly. It cant hold that weight.
Who would have known? Everything here is flimsy! In my day furniture was built to last centuries! This this is cardboard!
Emily steps over the shards, runs a finger along the torn edge of the hole.
This is decorative plaster, worth as much as your halfyear pension, Margaret. Fixing it invisibly is impossible. The whole wall will need rebuilding.
Margaret stops crying, looks at her daughterinlaw.
Do you really want the whole wall gone? Maybe we can put a picture or a rug?
No, Emily says, turning to James. No pictures, no rugs. James, gather Mums things.
What? James and Margaret ask in unison.
It. Emily replies. Im calling a taxi. Youll book a room at the Central Hotel; its a good place. Mum stays there until her repairs finish. Ill pay. She wont set foot in this flat again.
Youre kicking your own mother out? Margaret gasps, clutching her chest. My own mother, because of a hole in the wall? James, can you hear what your wife is saying?
James looks pale, shifting his gaze from the ruined wall to his wifes face. Hes seen that look only a handful of times in five years of marriage and knows arguing now would be futile. If Emilys decision is made, not even a bulldozer could reverse it.
Mum, James says softly. Emilys right. This has gone too far. Youve destroyed the kitchen.
I was trying to make it cosy! Margaret shrieks. Im trying! You ungrateful lot! My feet wont be here any more!
Exactly, Emily nods. Pack up. James will help. Ill start peeling off the butterfly stickers.
The packing is chaotic. Margaret wails dramatically about a snake under the floorboards, flings items into a suitcase, strips the floral curtains from the wall, snatches the sunflower cloth (You dont deserve such beauty!) and tosses all the fridge magnets into a bag.
Emily stands in the kitchen doorway, watching James haul a suitcase out. She feels no shame, only pity for the wall, for her nerves, and for James stuck in the middle. She knows swallowing this now would only make things worse later. Tomorrow shell move the sofa, the day after shell discard the wrong books, and in a year shell raise any future children with her own unshakeable standards.
When the door closes behind Margaret and James, a ringing silence fills the flat.
Emily exhales and returns to the kitchen, surveying the battlefield: dust on the floor, holes in the wall, glue residue where the butterflies once stuck, the lingering scent of sausage rolls clinging to the tiles.
She grabs trash bags, a ladder, solvent, and a putty knife.
First she carefully peels the remaining stickers; the highquality matte finish releases the adhesive easily. Next she removes the garish bathroom curtain and reinstalls her original glass partition after wiping the marker off the dispensers with spirit. The pink shag rug goes straight to the bin.
Two hours later, when James returns, the flat almost looks as it did before the invasion, save for the freshly patched wall.
James slips into the kitchen like a mouse. Emily sits at the nowclear table, sipping tea.
Ive booked her a luxury suite, just as you asked, he says, sitting opposite her. Shes still calling her friends, bragging that weve kicked her out into a cold snap, even though its twenty degrees outside.
Let her brag, Emily shrugs. At least shes not here.
Emily Im sorry. I was a fool. I should have stopped her straight away. I just grew up with a mum who rearranged my room every time she felt like it. Posters torn down, knitted napkins on my desk I thought that was normal care.
Emily looks at him, her expression finally softening.
Its not care, James. Its control. Im glad you finally see the difference. Well fix the wall; Ive already found a tradesperson for tomorrow. From now on, visits from your mum will be limited to holidays, and only in neutral spaces. No overnight stays.
I agree, James nods. Completely agree.
He rises, grabs a trash bag, and empties the remnants of sausage rolls from the table.
What? They were tasty, Emily protests.
Delicious, but they smell like oppression. Lets order a pizza. You in?
Emily laughs, the first genuine laugh of the night.
Count me in. Extra cheese. And lets fling the windows open, finally air out this cozy mess.
They sit on the livingroom floor, eating pizza from a box as the night wind sweeps through the flat, carrying away the stale scent of fried dough and cheap perfume. The kitchen walls still bear fresh holes, but Emily knows they can be repaired. More importantly, she has defended her boundaries and finally gained a true ally in her husband. This feels worth more than any ruined plaster.
