My motherinlaw decided to remodel my kitchen to suit her taste while I was at work.
Andrew, I beg you, just keep an eye on her so she doesnt start fiddling in the kitchen, I said, standing in the hallway, nervously tugging at the strap of my handbag. You know how much that refurbishment cost me and how Ive agonised over the cabinet fronts.
He, nursing his morning coffee, waved a friendly hand.
Poppy, why are you getting worked up? Mums only here for a week while the plumbers sort out the burst pipe. Shes not the enemy, is she? Shell make a proper beef stew, and you wont have to stand over the hob in the evening.
Stew sounds lovely, but Im asking you to make sure she doesnt start improving the space. Remember how, in our old flat, she thought the plain white walls were boring and glued a dolphin border in the hall? I spent a whole week scrubbing the glue off.
Leave the past in the past, love. Mum just wants a cosy home. Off you go, youll be late. Im working from home today, Ive got it under control.
I sighed heavily, planted a quick kiss on Andrews cheek and walked out. My heart was in turmoil. That kitchen was my sanctuary, my pride, a place where every detail mattered. For three months the designer and I had agonised over the shade of the cabinet frontsdeep, matte charcoal. The countertop was natural stone, flawless, with hidden fittings and a strict, minimal line. No knickknacks, no magnets on the fridge, no gaudy towels. Minimalism had cost me a small fortune, and every scratch felt like a personal wound.
Ethel, my motherinlaw, a boisterous, decisive woman with an unshakable notion of what is beautiful, arrived the previous evening. She swept the flat with a critical eye and declared that the young couples home was as clean as a hospital, but theres nothing to catch the eye. I said nothing, attributing it to travel fatigue.
The workday dragged on. I kept wanting to call Andrew, but reminded myself that he was an adult who had promised to watch. Besides, I had an important report due, and indulging in domestic paranoia would have been unprofessional.
At lunch I finally gave in.
Hows mum?
Its fine, Andrews voice sounded oddly chipper, edged with tension. Mum um shes been tidying a bit. Shes baked a Victoria sponge. The smells gone round the whole block!
A sponge? I tightened. Did she switch on the oven? Did she fiddle with the touch panel? Theres a lock on that, you know.
Shes sorted it, shes clever, he rushed. Poppy, Ive got a Zoom call, lets talk this evening, okay? Love you!
He hung up abruptly. Tidying a bit. That phrase, coming from Ethel, could mean anything from washing dishes to rearranging furniture.
The rest of the day I was on pins and needles, envisioning grim scenarios: greasy stains on the matte fronts, chips in the stone, melted plastic boards. The reality that awaited me at home exceeded even my worst nightmares.
I sensed something off the moment I stepped out of the lift. A thick scent of fried onions, yeasty dough and, oddly, bleach filled the hallway. I turned the key in the lock.
Im home! I shouted, kicking off my shoes.
Silence answered. Only the cheerful clatter of plates and Ethels humming rose from the kitchen. I walked down the corridor; the kitchen door was ajar. I stepped inside and dropped my bag.
My kitchen my sleek, charcoal haven was gone.
Every surface screamed colourbright, garish, unapologetic.
The immaculate stone countertop lay beneath a bright orange tablecloth, not a simple cloth but a vinyl sheet splashed with gigantic sunflowers. The edges hung in uneven waves, covering the lower drawers.
Oh, Poppy dear, youve arrived! Ethel, swanning a floral apron I had never owned, turned from the stove, her face flushed with pride. Were having a little feast! Ive been up since five, kneading dough. Look at this!
I could barely speak. My eyes swept the room, taking in the scale of the disaster.
Where the strict grey fronts once stood, now covered in vinyl stickers, were pink, blue and limegreen butterflies the size of my hand, haphazardly stuck to every cabinet door.
Ethel what is this? I rasped, feeling my left eye twitch.
Those? Picked them up on the way back from the greengrocer while I was grabbing milk. Brightens things up, doesnt it? Your flat was so grey, like a crypt. Now its summer, full of joy! And Andrew loves it, doesnt he, love?
Andrew appeared in the doorway, looking guilty, eyes darting to his socks.
Mum, I told you Pol
Enough! she snapped, waving her hands. Ive added comfort! A pricey kitchen needs a soul. It was empty, cold.
I stepped toward the window. My favourite Romanstyle curtains, the colour of wet asphalt, had vanished. In their place hung a frilly white voile, ruffled and embroidered with gold swans.
My curtains? My voice dropped to a whisper. Where are they?
Your curtains are in the wash, Ethel waved, flipping a sizzling pastry in the pan. They were dusty, grey. I kept a spare set in my suitcase, just in case. See how bright it is now? Like a palace!
I lifted the edge of the sunflowercovered vinyl. Beneath lay a sticky patch.
Why the vinyl? Its natural stone, you cant cover it
Oh, your stone was cold, your elbows would freeze! I rolled out the dough, feared a mess, so I dabbed the vinyl with a clothpractical! Bought it at B&M for a few pence, looks completely different.
A volcano of fury boiled inside me. I turned to the fridge, a twometre steel monolith I had forbidden anyone to touch. It now resembled a bulletin board, plastered with magnetstiny piglets, cats and miniature pictures of towns in the Cotswolds.
Where did those come from? I pointed, hand trembling.
My collection! Ethel declared proudly. Brought them from home. I thought theyd just collect dust. Look, this ones from Bath, where we went when Andrew was five. Memories!
I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply. I needed calm, needed to speak softly. This was my husbands mother, after all. She meant well, she thought she was helping.
Andrew, I said, voice icy. May I have a word in the bedroom?
He slipped his head into my shoulder, following me. Ethel shouted after us,
Stop whispering, itll freeze the whole house! Sit down and eat while its hot!
In the bedroom I shut the door and leaned against it.
You promised to keep an eye on her, I said.
I was working! Andrew began, gesturing anxiously. Had a call with a client, got up for a glass of water then the butterflies appeared. I told her, Mum, Pol will be angry. She said, Dont worry, shell love it, its a surprise. I couldnt tear the stickers off in front of her, shed be upset!
Upset?! I hissed, trying not to scream. Shes turned my kitchen into a countryfair market! Ruffles! Sunflowers! Butterflies! Do you realise those stickers could damage the finish? The adhesive could eat the softtouch coating!
Well clean it, Pol, well
What well clean? Did you see what she did to the railing?
No, what?
I havent seen it yet, but Im terrified. Tell her to restore everything, now.
I cant, Andrew pleaded. Shes my mother. Shes trying. Shes been kneading dough since five oclock. If I say its terrible, her blood pressure will spike. You know how fretful she is. Lets wait a week. Shell leave and we can quietly fix it.
A week? My eyes widened. I cant drink tea for a week surrounded by golden swans and plastic butterflies! My eyes twitching!
Please, for my sake. Ill get you a spa voucher, two days. Just dont make a scene. Mums already worried about her own repairs. She needs to feel needed.
I looked at him. His pleading eyes and his fear of conflict softened my anger just enough to make it a dull irritation.
Fine, I said. I wont cause a scene now. Ill take the vinyl off, and Ill put the curtains back tonight. Ill claim an allergy to synthetic fabrics.
We returned to the kitchen. Ethel had already set the table. Under the sunflower vinyl lay steaming bowls of beetroot soup, and in the centre a mound of deepfried pastry.
Sit down, you two! she commanded. Want some cream?
I sat, appetite gone, though the aroma was tempting. I lifted a spoon, averting my gaze from a smiling caterpillar sticker perched before my nose.
Ethel, thank you for dinner, I began diplomatically. But regarding the décor you know I have very specific tastes. I prefer emptiness.
Thats not taste, thats melancholy, dear, she replied, nibbling a pastry. A young woman should live surrounded by beauty. Flowers, frillsthats feminine energy. Your flat looks like an operating theatre. A man cant feel comfortable in that. Right, Andrew?
Andrew choked on the soup.
Mum, why I liked it. It felt stylish.
Stylish, she mocked. Stylish is when the soul sings. Listen, its singing now. By the way, Ive also tidied the bathroom.
My spoon clattered to the plate, soup splashing over the sunflower print.
The bathroom? I whispered.
Yes. All your shampoos were in identical bottles, you couldnt tell which was which. I marked them with a marker. I laid down fluffy pink mats for warm feet. I replaced the glass partition with a proper one, with dolphins. Its all done.
I rose slowly.
Thanks, it was delicious, I said, staring at the wall. Im going to lie down. My head hurts.
I left the kitchen, hearing Ethel whisper loudly to Andrew,
See? I told you she was exhausted. Nothing makes her happy, not even beauty. She needs vitamins.
The bathroom was a disaster worse than the kitchen. The sleek, whitemarble room now resembled a preschool. A poisonouspink shag rug covered the floor. On the expensive soap dispensers my Japaneseordered ones, a permanent marker had labelled FOR HAIR, FOR BODY, SOAP. The glass partition was draped with a cheap bluedolphin plastic curtain, bolted to the tile.
I sat on the tub edge, covering my face with my hands, tears of helplessness welling. It wasnt grief, it was surrender. This wasnt a matter of taste; it was an invasive intrusion masquerading as care.
Ten minutes passed before Andrews footsteps echoed. He peered in.
Poppy, you alright?
I want her to go, I said quietly. Not in a week. Tomorrow.
Where will she go? Her repair, no water?
To a hotel. Ill pay for a decent room with breakfast. I cant live in this circus, Andrew. Shes ruined my belongings. Did you see the dispensers? Marked! That cant be cleaned!
Well wash it with spirit, dont panic.
Its not the spirit! Its the disrespect. She treats our home like a playground, like a cat marking territory!
Suddenly a crashing sound, shattering glass, and Ethels shrill scream tore through the kitchen.
Andrew and I exchanged a glance and bolted inside.
The scene was catastrophic. Ethel stood in the middle of the kitchen, clutching her chest. On the floor, in a pool of water and broken shards, lay the heavy oak shelf that had perched over the table, collapsed along with the flower pots she had apparently decided to display.
I I only wanted to water the flowers, she stammered. I thought it was sturdy I just wanted a geranium for a touch of beauty
The wall behind showed gouged holes where the shelf brackets had ripped out, plaster crumbling to reveal raw concrete.
The shelf was decorative, I said slowly. Its meant to hold a couple of picture frames, not three pots of soil.
Who would have guessed! she wailed. Everything is flimsy these days! In my time furniture was built to last! This is cardboard!
I stepped over the broken pieces, touched the ragged edge of the hole.
This is decorative plaster, I said, voice calm yet chilling. A square metre costs as much as your pension for six months, Ethel. Repairing it discreetly is impossible. The whole wall will have to be redone.
She fell silent, staring at me.
Pol the whole wall?
No pictures, no rugs. Andrew, gather Mums things.
What? both asked.
The taxis on the way. Book the Central hotel, splendid rooms. Mum will stay there until her repairs finish. Ill pay for everything. She wont set foot in this flat again.
Youre evicting your own mother? Ethel gasped, clutching her chest as if it were a professional injury. Because of a wall? Andrew, do you hear what your wife is saying?
Andrews face went pale, his gaze shifting from the ruined wall to my determined expression. He had seen that look only a handful of times in our five years together, and he knew arguing was useless. If I had decided, not even a bulldozer could move me.
Mum, he said softly, Pol is right. This has gone too far. Youve wrecked the kitchen.
I was trying to make it cosy! she shrieked. I was trying! Youre all ungrateful! My feet will never walk here again!
Fine then, I said. Pack up. Andrew will help. Ill start pulling the butterfly stickers off.
The packing was chaotic. Ethel wept dramatically, lamenting a snake under the floorboards that her son had supposedly warmed, shoving items into a suitcase. She tore down the curtains, snatched the sunflower vinyl (You dont deserve this beauty!) and dumped every magnet from the fridge into a bag.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Andrew cart the suitcase away. I felt no shame, only sorrowfor the wall, for my nerves, for Andrew caught between two fires. But I knew that swallowing this whole episode would only make things worse. Tomorrow I would move the sofa, the day after I would toss the wrong books, and a year later I would raise any future children on the only method I believed correct.
When the door shut behind them, a ringing silence settled over the flat.
I exhaled and returned to the kitchen, surveying the battlefield: debris on the floor, holes in the wall, traces of adhesive where the butterflies had clung, the lingering scent of fried pastry that seemed to have seeped into the very plaster.
I fetched rubbish bags, a step ladder, a solvent and a putty knife.
First I gently peeled away the remaining stickers. Fortunately the highgrade finish held, and the glue came off cleanly. Then I stripped the garish bathroom curtain, restored the glass partition, and wiped the markers off the dispensers with spirit. The pink rug was tossed without regret.
Two hours later, when Andrew returned, the flat had almost regained its former appearance. Only the wall holes remained as silent testimony to the cozy invasion.
Andrew slipped into the kitchen quietly, like a mouse. I sat at the nowclear table, sipping tea.
I booked her a luxury room, just as you wanted, he said, taking a seat opposite. Shes still shouting, calling friends, boasting how we chased her out into the cold, even though its twenty degrees outside.
Let her boast, I replied, nonchalant. The point is shes not here.
Pol Im sorry, he murmured, remorse heavy. I should have stopped her straightaway. I was used to her running the house when I was a childposters ripped down because they were ugly, a crocheted napkin on the table, and I thought that was normal. I thought it was caring.
I looked at him, my gaze finally warming.
It isnt care, Andrew. Its control. Im glad you finally see the difference. Well repair the wall; Ive already found a builder, hell come tomorrow. From now on, visits from your mother will be limited to holidays and only in neutral spaces. No overnight stays.
I agree, he nodded. Absolutely.
He stood, fetched a bag, and scooped the remaining pastry bits from the table.
Youre not eating them? I asked, surprised.
Theyre tasty, he admitted. But they smell like oppression. Ill order a pizza. Want a slice?
I laughed, the first genuine laugh of the night.
Ill have a doublecheese. And lets fling the windows open. We need to air out this coziness once and for all.
We sat on the livingroom floor, sharing a cardboard pizza, while the night air swept through the flat, carrying away the smell of fried oil and cheap perfume. The kitchen still bore gaping holes, but I knew they could be fixed. Most of all, I had defended my boundaries. In the struggle for that kitchen I had finally found a true ally in my husband, and that was worth more than any repaired plaster.
