The Embers of Retribution in a Quiet Home
Evening settled over the small town of Heatherbrook, draping the streets in a soft twilight. Paul returned home from work, weary but content. In the hallway, his wife, Emily, greeted him with a warm smile and the inviting aroma of freshly made meat pies.
“Hello, love. Fancy some supper? I’ve just made the pies,” she said, smoothing her apron.
“Of course,” Paul replied, slipping off his shoes. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them carelessly onto the side table.
Emily noticed the unfamiliar keys and squinted slightly.
“What are these?”
“Mum’s gone to a spa retreat for three weeks,” Paul explained, rubbing his neck. “She asked me to look after her flat and left the keys.”
Suddenly, Emily’s eyes sparkled with mischief—almost menacingly. She clapped her hands together and exclaimed,
“At last! I’ll finally do it!”
Paul froze, baffled. His usually composed wife looked as though she’d hatched some grand scheme.
“What are you on about? Do what?” he asked, his unease growing.
Emily only flashed a mysterious grin, but the determination in her gaze sent a chill down his spine.
A few weeks earlier, their lives had been turned upside down. Returning home from a visit to Emily’s parents, they found their flat utterly unrecognizable. The wallpaper in the hallway, chosen with such care, had been replaced with garish, mismatched patterns. The furniture in the living room and bedroom had been rearranged—the wardrobe now stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, and the bed faced the window, disrupting all sense of comfort.
“What on earth?” Emily dropped her bags in shock the moment she stepped inside.
Paul peered over her shoulder, struggling to process the sight. His stomach twisted in horror.
“Who did this?” Emily gasped, trembling with fury. “This isn’t our home!”
“Easy now,” Paul said, steadying her shoulders. “Let’s figure this out.”
But the more they inspected, the angrier they became. The sofa had been shoved by the window, the telly moved to a corner. The chest of drawers in the bedroom now blocked the spot where their mirror had hung. Chaos reigned, and the culprit was clear—Paul’s mother, Margaret.
A month earlier, Margaret had swooped in for an inspection. From the moment she walked in, she’d criticized everything—from the colour of the wallpaper to the layout.
“These walls are so dreary, like an old folks’ home!” she declared, shaking her head disapprovingly. “You need something lively—cheerful!”
“We like it as it is,” Emily replied evenly, masking her irritation.
“Nonsense! No wonder you’re always on edge in such gloom,” Margaret persisted, ignoring objections. “And this furniture—what a mess! The wardrobe shouldn’t be here, and the bed’s all wrong!”
Emily had wanted to argue, but Paul’s pleading look silenced her. Arguing with his mother was pointless—she could drone on for hours about how they “should” live. Eventually, she left, but the tension lingered. Paul and Emily sighed with relief, hoping that was the end of it.
Then came the trip to Emily’s parents’ anniversary. Their cat, Whiskers, couldn’t be left alone, and Paul suggested asking Margaret to look after him. Emily was vehemently opposed.
“You want to give her the keys? She’ll take over again!”
But they had no choice—there was no one else to care for Whiskers. Reluctantly, Emily agreed but gave strict instructions: when to feed him, how often to change his water, where his toys were. Every day, she called to check in. Margaret answered tersely—”Everything’s fine”—before abruptly hanging up. It should have been a warning, but Emily dismissed her unease.
When they returned, they realized Margaret hadn’t just watched the cat—she’d staged a full-blown coup.
“What do we do now?” Emily sighed, staring at the unfamiliar wallpaper and displaced furniture.
“Move everything back, redo the wallpaper,” Paul said wearily. “It’ll cost time and money. I’ll ring Mum right now and have it out with her.”
Emily wiped away tears, then suddenly smirked.
“No need,” she said, her voice laced with quiet resolve. “I’ve got a much better idea. Isn’t your mother going to that spa soon?”
Paul nodded, still confused. Emily winked, and her plan took shape.
When Margaret left for her retreat, handing Paul her spare keys, Emily’s excitement was palpable. She jingled the keys triumphantly.
“Time to show her how it feels!”
Paul hesitated but agreed—Margaret deserved the lesson.
For three weekends, they visited Margaret’s flat. While she relaxed, her home transformed. Emily swapped the gaudy floral wallpaper for soft pastel stripes—the opposite of Margaret’s bold tastes. Paul helped rearrange furniture—moving the dresser from the bedroom to the hall, replacing shelving with something “more suitable.” They even added a few decor touches Emily insisted would “freshen things up.”
When Margaret returned, she stood frozen in the doorway.
“What have you done?” she shrieked, dialling Paul instantly. “Where’s my wallpaper? Who picked this rubbish?”
Paul remained calm.
“We thought your old décor was too loud. At your age, something peaceful is best—easier on the eyes.”
“Is this a joke?” Margaret spluttered. “You had no right! I trusted you with my keys, and this—why’s the dresser here? What are these ridiculous shelves? Put it all back!”
“We’re not finished yet,” Paul interrupted. “Now, tell me—why did you think we’d like what you did to our place?”
Silence. For the first time, Margaret seemed to grasp the weight of her actions.
“That’s different!” she finally spat. “I was helping! This—this is just tacky!”
“Either way, our home isn’t yours to meddle with,” Paul said firmly. “If you don’t want your sofa on the balcony next time, stay out of our business.”
Margaret fell quiet. The lesson sank in. From then on, she never interfered again, avoiding any talk of décor or renovations. Emily, satisfied, finally felt their home was truly theirs.
Sometimes, the best way to teach respect is to give a taste of one’s own medicine.