The Sparks of Retribution in a Quiet Home
Dusk settled over the sleepy village of Heatherbrook, its streets wrapped in a soft, creeping twilight. Paul returned home from work, tired but content. In the hallway, his wife, Eleanor, greeted him with a warm smile and the scent of freshly fried sausages.
“Hello, love. Fancy some supper? I’ve done sausages and mash,” she said, adjusting her apron.
“Of course,” Paul replied, kicking off his shoes. He fished a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them carelessly onto the sideboard.
Eleanor noticed the unfamiliar keys and raised an eyebrow.
“What are these for?”
“Mum’s gone off to a spa in Bath for three weeks,” Paul explained, rubbing his neck. “She asked me to keep an eye on her flat. Left me the keys.”
Suddenly, Eleanor’s eyes lit up with a mischievous, almost sinister glint. She clapped her hands together and exclaimed,
“Brilliant! I’ll finally do it!”
Paul froze, baffled. His usually calm and composed wife looked as though she had hatched some grand scheme.
“What on earth are you on about? Do what?” he asked, his unease growing.
Eleanor only smirked cryptically, but the determination in her gaze sent a chill down Paul’s spine.
A few weeks earlier, their lives had been turned upside down. Returning home from a visit to Eleanor’s parents, they had found their flat utterly transformed. The wallpaper in the hallway, which they had painstakingly chosen together, had been replaced with garish, clashing patterns. The furniture in the lounge and bedroom had been rearranged—the wardrobe now stood in the middle of the room, and the bed faced the window, shattering their cosy sanctuary.
“What in God’s name—?” Eleanor dropped her suitcase the moment she stepped inside, stunned.
Paul peered over her shoulder, struggling to comprehend the sight. His stomach twisted in horror.
“Who did this?” Eleanor’s hands trembled with fury. “This isn’t our home!”
“Calm down,” Paul said, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Let’s figure this out.”
But the more they explored, the more incensed they became. The sofa had been shoved under the window, the telly relocated to a corner. The dresser in the bedroom now pressed against the wall where their mirror once hung. Chaos ruled, and the culprit was obvious—Paul’s mother, Margaret.
A month earlier, Margaret had arrived for an impromptu inspection. From the doorstep, she had criticised everything—from their choice of wallpaper to the furniture layout.
“These walls are so dreary! Like something out of a care home!” she declared, shaking her head. “You need something livelier to lift your spirits!”
“We like it just fine,” Eleanor replied tightly, biting back her irritation.
“Nonsense! No wonder you’re always on edge with this gloom about you,” Margaret went on, ignoring her protests. “And your furniture’s all wrong. The wardrobe belongs in the corner, not the middle of the lounge! And the bed—who in their right mind sleeps facing the window?”
Eleanor opened her mouth to argue, but a look from Paul stopped her. He knew better than to challenge his mother. Margaret could nitpick for hours, dictating how they should live. Eventually, she left, leaving behind a cloud of disapproval. Paul and Eleanor had sighed in relief, hoping that was the end of it.
But soon after, they had to leave for Eleanor’s mother’s birthday. Their cat, Whiskers, couldn’t be left alone, so Paul suggested asking Margaret to look after him. Eleanor had been adamant.
“You want to hand her our keys? She’ll redecorate the whole place!”
But they had no other choice. Reluctantly, Eleanor agreed, giving Margaret strict instructions—Whiskers’ feeding times, where his toys were, how often to refresh his water. Every day, she phoned to check in. Margaret’s replies were curt: “Everything’s fine,” before hanging up. It should have been a warning, but Eleanor brushed it off.
Coming home, they realised Margaret hadn’t just fed the cat. She had staged a full-scale invasion.
“What do we do now?” Eleanor asked wearily, staring at the foreign wallpaper and misplaced furniture.
“Move everything back. Repaper the walls,” Paul sighed. “It’ll cost us time and money. I’ll call Mum right now and give her a piece of my mind.”
Eleanor wiped her eyes, then suddenly grinned.
“No need,” she said, her voice laced with determination. “I’ve got a better idea. Your mum’s off to that spa soon, isn’t she?”
Paul nodded, still confused. Eleanor only winked, and her plan took shape.
When Margaret left for Bath, entrusting Paul with her keys, Eleanor practically glowed with anticipation.
“Finally! She’s going to get a taste of her own medicine!” she declared, jingling the keys.
Paul, though hesitant, agreed to go along with it. Margaret had earned this.
For three weekends, they visited her flat while she was away. By the time she returned, her home was unrecognisable. Eleanor had replaced Margaret’s bold floral wallpaper with soft pastel prints—everything Margaret despised. Paul had helped rearrange the furniture, relocating the wardrobe to the corridor and swapping out her beloved shelves for something “more refined”. They even added a few decorative touches they claimed “freshened up” the place.
Margaret stood frozen in her own doorway, her face a picture of shock.
“What have you done?!” she shrieked into her phone. “Where are my roses? What’s this insipid rubbish? Who gave you the right?!”
Paul remained calm.
“We thought your place needed a bit of tranquillity. At your age, something calming does wonders.”
“Is this a joke?!” Margaret spluttered. “You had no right! I trusted you with my keys, and you— Why is my wardrobe in the hall?! What are these ghastly shelves?! Put everything back!”
“We’re not quite finished yet,” Paul cut in. “Now tell me—why did you think we’d enjoy what you did to our flat?”
Silence.
“This is different!” Margaret finally hissed. “I was trying to help! And you—this is just tasteless!”
“Be that as it may, it’s our home, not yours,” Paul said firmly. “Unless you want to find your sofa on the balcony next time, keep your opinions to yourself.”
Margaret went quiet. The lesson had sunk in. From then on, she no longer meddled in their lives, steering clear of any talk of decor. Eleanor, triumphant, finally felt their home was truly theirs again.
