My motherinlaw decided to remodel my kitchen to her taste while I was at work.
James, I beg you, just make sure she doesnt start tinkering in the kitchen, I heard Emily say at the hallway, nervously fidgeting with the strap of her handbag. You know how much that renovation cost me and how Im obsessively polishing the cabinets.
I finished my morning coffee, gave her a reassuring smile and waved my hand.
Emily, why are you so wound up? Mums only here for a week while the plumbers are fixing the pipes at her flat. Shes not our enemy, is she? Shell just make a borscht, and you wont have to stand over the stove in the evening.
Borscht is fine, but Im asking you to keep an eye on her so she doesnt start improving the space, Emily replied, her voice shaking. Remember when she was at our old flat and thought white wallpaper was boring, so she stuck a dolphin border in the hallway? I spent a week scrubbing the glue off.
Leave the past behind, I said. Mum just wants to make herself comfortable. Hurry up, youll be late. Im working from home today, everythings under control.
Emily let out a heavy sigh, planted a quick kiss on my cheek and headed out. Her heart was racing. The kitchen was her sanctuary, the pride of her home, the place where she felt most powerful. For three months she and the designer had agonised over the shade of the cabinet fronts a deep, matte charcoal. The countertop was natural stone, the lines were strict, the hardware hidden. No needless jars, fridge magnets, or gaudy towels. Minimalism had come at a steep price, and any scratch on the surface felt like a personal wound.
Dorothy Whitmore, Emilys mother, a loud, busy woman with an unshakeable idea of what looks good, arrived yesterday evening. She swept the flat with a critical eye and declared that the young couples flat was as clean as a hospital, but theres nothing to catch the eye. Emily kept quiet, chalking it up to fatigue from the journey.
The workday dragged on. Emily kept reaching for her phone, but she held back. James is an adult, he promised to keep an eye on things, she told herself. Besides, she had an important report to finish; getting distracted by domestic paranoia would be unprofessional.
At lunch she finally gave in and dialled my number.
Hows it going? Hows mum?
Fine, I said, my voice a little too chipper, a hint of tension underneath. Mum um shes doing a bit of housekeeping. Shes baked a pie. The smells drifting down the hallway!
A pie? Emilys tone tightened. James, did she turn the oven on? Did she fiddle with the touch panel? Theres a safety lock on it.
Shes sorted it, shes clever. Love, Ive got a Zoom meeting now, lets talk this evening, okay? Kiss!
The call ended abruptly. Emily stared at the phone, suspicious. Doing a bit of housekeeping could mean anything from washing dishes to rearranging furniture.
The rest of the day Emily spent on edge, imagining greasy streaks on the matte fronts, chips in the stone, melted plastic boards. But the reality waiting for her at home exceeded even her worst nightmares.
She sensed something was off the moment she stepped out of the lift. The smell of fried onions, yeasty dough and, oddly, bleach hung thick in the air. She fumbled the front door with her key.
Im home! she shouted, kicking off her shoes.
Silence answered. Only the cheerful clatter of dishes and the humming of Dorothys voice drifted from the kitchen. Emily walked down the corridor. The kitchen door was ajar. She crossed the threshold and dropped her bag.
Her kitchen her sleek, charcoalcoloured haven had vanished.
The first thing that hit her eyes was colour. Bright, garish, relentless colour.
The immaculate stone countertop was covered with a cheap vinyl tablecloth, not a plain one but a garish orange fabric splashed with giant sunflowers. The edges hung in uneven waves, draping over the lower cabinets.
Oh, Emily dear, youre here! Dorothy announced, twirling in a floral apron shed never owned before, her face flushed with pride. Ive been making pastries! Look, Ive even baked some scones. Ive been at it since dawn.
Emily could say nothing. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the scale of the disaster.
Where the strict grey cabinets once stood, vinyl stickers of butterflies now clung haphazardly to every door pink, blue, limegreen butterflies the size of a palm.
Dorothy Emily croaked, her left eye twitching. What is this?
Those? I picked them up at the market while I was getting milk, Dorothy said, smiling. It brightens things up! Your flat was all grey and gloomy, like a crypt. Now its summer, full of joy! And James liked it, right, love?
James appeared in the doorway, looking guilty and sheepish, his eyes darting away to his socks.
Mum, I told you Emily might not like this he muttered.
Whats there to like? Dorothy waved her hands. Ive added some cosy vibes. A cheap kitchen can still have soul. It was empty and cold before.
Emily stepped toward the window. Her favourite Romanstyle curtains, the colour of wet asphalt, were gone. In their place hung a frilly white voile with goldembroidered swans.
My curtains Emily whispered. Where are they?
Theyre in the wash, Dorothy said, flipping a greasy pancake in a pan. They were dusty and grey, so I borrowed some of mine from my suitcase. Look how bright it is now, like a palace!
Emily lifted the edge of the sunflower cloth and found a sticky patch underneath.
Why the cloth? Thats natural stone, you cant cover it
Oh, the stone gets cold on your elbows! I rolled out some dough and was afraid to get it dirty, so I wiped the cloth over it. Its cheap, I got it from the discount store, just a few pence, but it changes the look entirely.
A surge of anger rose in Emily. She turned to the fridge a twometre steel monolith shed forbidden anyone to touch. It now resembled a bulletin board, plastered with magnets of piglets, cats and Russianring towns.
Where did these come from? she asked, trembling.
These are mine! I brought them from home. I thought theyd just collect dust. The fridge is big, plenty of room. Heres one from Blackpool, we went there when James was five. Memories!
Emily closed her eyes, took a deep breath. She had to stay calm, not say too much. It was her husbands mother, after all. She wanted the best.
James, she said in a cold tone. Can we talk in the bedroom for a minute?
James slunk his shoulders and followed her. Dorothy shouted after them, Dont whisper, itll freeze the whole house! Sit down and eat while its hot!
In the bedroom Emily shut the door and leaned against it.
You promised to keep an eye on things, she said.
Emily, I was working! James began, gesturing wildly. I was on a call with a client, stepped away for a drink of water, and then the butterflies appeared. I told her Mum, Emily might get upset, and she said Dont worry, shell love the surprise. I couldnt tear them off without hurting her feelings!
Hurting her feelings?! Emily snapped. She turned my kitchen into a village fair! Ruffles! Sunflowers! Butterflies! Do you realise those stickers could damage the finish? The adhesive will eat the softtouch surface!
Well clean it, love, James tried to interject. What about the railings?
I havent seen them, but Im scared to look. Tell her to put everything back as it was, now.
I cant, James pleaded. Shes your mother. Shes trying. Shes been up since five oclock kneading dough. If I say its terrible, her blood pressure will spike. You know how thinskinned she is. Lets wait a week. Shell go back, and we can tidy things up quietly.
A week? Emilys eyes widened. I cant drink tea surrounded by golden swans and plastic butterflies for a week! My eye is twitching!
Just for me, please. Ill buy you a spa voucher, two of them. No drama. Mums already stressed about her own repairs. She needs to feel useful.
Emily looked at James. The desperation and fear of conflict in his eyes softened her anger into a dull irritation.
All right, she said. I wont cause a scene now. Ill take off the cloth and put the curtains back this evening. Ill say Im allergic to synthetic fabrics.
They returned to the kitchen. Dorothy had already set the table. Beneath the sunflower cloth lay steaming bowls of borscht, and a mound of scones sat in the centre.
Come on, you two, have a bite! Dorothy ordered. Want some sour cream?
Emily sat down, appetite gone, but the scent was undeniably tempting. She lifted a spoon, trying not to stare at the smiling caterpillar sticker directly in front of her.
Dorothy, thank you for dinner, she began diplomatically. But about the décor you know I have very specific tastes. I prefer a clean look.
Thats not a taste, thats depression, love, Dorothy replied, biting into a scone. A young woman should live in beauty. Flowers, frills thats feminine energy. Your place was like an operating theatre. A man cant feel comfortable in that. Right, James?
James choked on the borscht.
Mum, why I liked it. It was stylish.
Stylish, Dorothy mimicked. Stylish is when the soul sings. Right now its singing. By the way, I tidied up the bathroom as well.
Emilys spoon clattered onto the plate, splashing borscht over the sunflowers.
The bathroom? she asked, voice flat.
Yes. All your shampoos were in identical bottles, impossible to tell apart. I marked them with a marker and put fluffy pink mats for warmth. And I replaced the glass partition with a proper curtain with dolphins, because yours was a disgrace, all visible.
Emily rose slowly.
Thanks, it was delicious, she said, staring at the wall. Im going to lie down. My head hurts.
She left the kitchen, hearing Dorothy whisper loudly to James, See? I told you she was worn out. Nothing makes her happy, not even this prettiness. She needs vitamins.
The bathroom was even worse than the kitchen. The sleek whitemarble room now looked like a childrens playroom. A toxicpink shag rug covered the floor. On the expensive soap and shampoo dispensers (the ones Emily had ordered from Japan) a black permanent marker read, FOR HEAD, FOR BODY, SOAP. The glass partition was draped with a cheap plastic curtain bearing blue dolphins, fixed to a rod that dug into the pricey tiles.
Emily sat on the edge of the bathtub, covering her face with her hands. She wanted to cry, not from grief but from helplessness. It wasnt just bad taste; it was an audacious invasion of her personal space under the guise of care.
She sat like that for ten minutes until she heard footsteps. James peered in.
Emily, you okay?
I want her to leave, Emily whispered. Not in a week. Tomorrow.
Where will she go? Her flat is under repair, no water
To a hotel. Ill book a decent one with breakfast and pay for it. I cant live in this circus, James. Shes ruined my things. Did you see the dispensers? Marked! Thats not washable!
Well clean with alcohol, love. Dont get worked up.
Its not about the alcohol! Emily snapped. Its that she doesnt respect me. She treats my home like her playground. Shes marked her territory like a cat!
At that moment a terrible crash sounded from the kitchen, glass shattered, and Dorothys shriek echoed.
Emily and James exchanged a glance and bolted toward the kitchen.
The scene was cinematic. Dorothy stood in the middle of the kitchen, clutching her chest. On the floor, in a puddle of water and broken shards, lay the heavy oak shelf that had been above the table. Along with it fell several flower pots she had apparently tried to place there.
I I only wanted to water a plant, Dorothy stammered. I thought the shelf was sturdy I put a geranium for a bit of colour
Emily looked at the wall. The brackets had been ripped out, leaving gaping holes in the perfectly plastered surface. The plaster crumbled, exposing raw concrete.
The shelf was decorative, Emily said slowly. Its meant to hold a couple of picture frames, not three pots with soil.
Who would have known! Dorothy wailed. Everything in your house is flimsy! In my day furniture was built to last! This is cardboard!
Emily stepped over the shards, approached the wall, and ran a finger along the torn edge.
Thats decorative plaster, she said, her voice calm yet chilling. A square metre of that costs as much as your halfyear pension, Dorothy. Repairing it invisibly is impossible. The whole wall will need redoing.
Dorothy fell silent, staring at her daughterinlaw.
Are you serious, Emily the whole wall? Maybe well hang a picture? A rug?
No, Emily replied, turning to them. No pictures. No rugs. James, gather mums things.
What? James and Dorothy asked simultaneously.
Right now Im calling a taxi. Book a room at the Central Hotel, good rates. Mum will stay there until her repairs are finished. Ill pay for everything. She wont be in this house another minute.
Youre kicking your own mother out? Dorothy gasped, clutching her chest. Because of a hole in the wall? James, do you hear what your wife is saying?
James paled, his gaze flicking between the ruined wall and Emilys face. He had seen that expression only a few times in five years of marriage and knew arguing was futile. If Emily was set, no bulldozer could move her.
Mum, he said quietly, Emilys right. This is over the line. Youve devastated the kitchen.
I was just trying to make it cosy! Dorothy shrieked. I was trying! You ungrateful lot! I wont be here any longer!
Fine then, Emily said. Pack up. James will help. Ill start removing the butterflies.
The packing was chaotic. Dorothy wept dramatically, complained about a snake under the floorboards that her son had warmed, hurled items into a suitcase, tore down the curtains, grabbed the sunflower cloth (You dont deserve this beauty!) and stuffed all the fridge magnets into a bag.
Emily stood in the kitchen doorway, watching James carry the suitcase away. She felt no shame, only sorrow for the wall, her nerves, and for James, caught in the middle. She knew swallowing this whole mess would only make things worse. Tomorrow shed move the sofa, the day after shed toss the wrong books, and in a year shed be teaching any future children her own only correct methods.
When the door closed behind Dorothy and James, a ringing silence settled over the flat.
Emily exhaled and walked back into the kitchen, surveying the battlefield: debris on the floor, holes in the wall, remnants of glue where the butterflies had been, the lingering scent of scones seeping into the plaster.
She fetched garbage bags, a step ladder, adhesive remover and a putty knife.
First she carefully peeled off the remaining stickers. Fortunately the highquality finish held up; the glue came off easily. Then she ripped the hideous bathroom curtain, restored the original glass partition, and wiped the markers off the dispensers with alcohol. The pink rug was tossed without a second thought.
Two hours later, when James returned, the flat was almost back to its former self. Only the wall holes remained as a reminder of the cozy invasion.
James slipped into the kitchen as quietly as a mouse. Emily sat at the now clean table, sipping tea.
I booked her a luxury suite, just as you asked, he said, sitting opposite her. Shes still calling friends, bragging that we kicked her out in 20°C weather.
Let her talk, Emily shrugged. The important thing is shes not here.
Emily, Im sorry, James said, his voice soft. I was a fool. I should have stopped her straight away. I just grew up with my mum doing the same in my room. Posters ripped down, knitted napkins placed on the desk because its not pretty. I thought it was normal caring.
Emily looked at him, her gaze finally warming.
It isnt caring, James. Its control. Im glad you finally see the difference. Well fix the wall; Ive already found a tradesperson for tomorrow. From now on, mums visits will be limited to holidays and only in neutral spaces. No overnight stays.
I agree, James nodded. AbsolutelyThat night, as the wind whispered through the quiet streets, the house settled into a calm it hadnt known in weeks.
