The Sparks of Retribution in a Quiet Home
Evening settled over the small town of Heatherfield, draping the streets in a soft twilight. Paul returned home from work, tired but content. In the hallway, his wife, Alice, greeted him with a warm smile and the aroma of freshly made bangers and mash.
“Hello, love. Fancy some supper? I’ve made your favourite,” she said, adjusting her apron.
“Absolutely,” Paul replied, kicking off his shoes. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them carelessly onto the side table.
Alice spotted the unfamiliar keys and squinted.
“What are these for?”
“Mum’s gone to a spa retreat for three weeks,” Paul explained, rubbing his neck. “Asked us to keep an eye on her flat—left us the keys.”
Suddenly, Alice’s eyes sparkled with mischief, almost sinister. She clapped her hands together and exclaimed,
“At last! I’m going to do it!”
Paul froze, baffled. His wife, usually so composed, looked like she was plotting something grand.
“Do what? What’s going on?” he asked, unease creeping into his voice.
Alice only smirked mysteriously, 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 from a visit to Alice’s parents, they found their flat utterly transformed. The wallpaper in the hallway, which they’d carefully chosen, had been replaced with garish, clashing patterns. The furniture in the living room and bedroom had been rearranged—the wardrobe now stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, and their bed faced the window, ruining the cosy atmosphere they’d always loved.
“What on earth—?” Alice dropped her bag, stunned, barely stepping inside.
Paul peered over her shoulder, struggling to take it all in. His stomach twisted with dread.
“Who did this?” Alice’s hands trembled with anger. “This isn’t our home!”
“Calm down,” Paul said, resting his hands on her shoulders. “We’ll sort it out.”
But the more they looked, the worse it got. The sofa had been shoved by the window, the telly moved to a corner. In the bedroom, the dresser now blocked where their mirror once hung. Chaos. And the culprit was obvious—Paul’s mother, Margaret.
A month earlier, Margaret had dropped by for an “inspection.” From the moment she walked in, she’d criticised everything—the wallpaper (“Dreary, like a care home!”), the furniture (“All wrong! The wardrobe belongs in the corner! The bed’s facing the wrong way!”).
“We like it as it is,” Alice had said tightly, forcing a smile.
“Nonsense! It’s depressing. No wonder you’re always stressed,” Margaret huffed, ignoring protests.
Alice had wanted to argue, but Paul’s warning glance stopped her. Arguing with Margaret was pointless—she’d lecture for hours about the “right” way to live. When she finally left, they sighed in relief, hoping that was the end of it.
Then came Alice’s parents’ anniversary. Their cat, Whiskers, couldn’t stay alone, so Paul suggested asking Margaret to look after him. Alice was horrified.
“You want to give her keys? She’ll redecorate the whole place!”
But they had no choice. Reluctantly, Alice agreed, giving strict instructions—Whiskers’ food, water, toys. She called every day to check. Margaret answered curtly—”All fine”—then rushed off the phone. It should’ve been a red flag, but Alice brushed it off.
Returning home, they realised Margaret hadn’t just cat-sat. She’d staged a full-blown invasion.
“What do we do now?” Alice asked wearily, staring at the hideous wallpaper.
“Move things back. Re-do the walls.” Paul sighed. “Time and money wasted. I’ll call Mum and give her a piece of my mind.”
Alice wiped her eyes, then suddenly smiled—a sly, determined grin.
“No need,” she said. “I’ve got a better idea. Your mum’s off to that spa soon, right?”
Paul nodded, confused. Alice winked, and her plan took shape.
When Margaret left for her retreat, handing over her keys, Alice practically glowed with excitement. Jangling the keys, she declared,
“Finally—she’ll see how it feels!”
Paul hesitated but agreed. Margaret deserved a taste of her own medicine.
For three weekends, they worked in Margaret’s flat while she relaxed. Alice swapped the bold floral wallpaper for subtle pastels—everything Margaret hated. Paul helped rearrange furniture—wardrobes shifted, bookshelves replaced. They even added “tasteful” decor Alice insisted would “freshen things up.”
When Margaret returned, her jaw dropped. Frozen in the doorway, she screeched into the phone,
“What have you done?! Where’s my wallpaper? Who moved my furniture?!”
Paul stayed calm.
“Thought yours was a bit loud. At your age, something soothing is better.”
“Is this a joke?!” Margaret shrieked. “You had no right! I trusted you!”
“Not finished yet,” Paul cut in. “Now tell me—why did you think we’d like what you did to our place?”
Silence. For once, Margaret had no retort.
“That—that’s different! I was helping!”
“Our home, our rules,” Paul said firmly. “Next time, your sofa might end up on the balcony.”
Margaret went quiet. The lesson sank in. After that, she never meddled again, avoiding any mention of decor. Alice, triumphant, finally felt their home was truly theirs.