“Ill come in whenever I pleaseI have the keys,” my mother-in-law declared as she barged into our bedroom at five in the morning.
The scrape of the lock made me freeze, a damp cloth still clutched in my hand. Id been scrubbing at a sticky jam staincourtesy of Irene Barrowand I knew that sound all too well.
Paul was still asleep. Sunday, half past eight.
The door swung open, and there she stood. In one hand, a string bag of something green; in the other, the lead of her tiny, ever-trembling dog.
“Lottie, still in bed?” she chirped, stepping over the threshold. “Brought you some dill from the allotment.”
I straightened, my back stiffening.
“Good morning, Mrs. Barrow. We *were* sleeping. Or rather, Paul was.”
She ignored me and floated toward the kitchen. The dog gave a half-hearted yap and trotted after her.
“I was quiet as a mouse. No need for that tone. I was passing the market, thought Id drop it by. Better than that shop rubbish, full of chemicals.”
I followed. My one slow morning of the week was crumbling before my eyes.
“We couldve bought our own. Or you couldve rung. Wed have come down.”
Irene Barrow turned, her gaze sharp and assessing. It slid over my old t-shirt, bare feet, and tangled hair.
“Lottie, dont be silly. Why should you come down? Ive got keys.”
She said it as if bestowing a great gift. As if those keys werent to *my* flat, but to the pearly gates themselves.
That evening, I finally worked up the nerve. Paul was sprawled on the sofa, idly scratching his stomach as some drama played on the telly.
“Paul, we need to talk about your mother.”
He sighed without looking away from the screen.
“Not this again, Lottie. She only brought some dill.”
“She let herself into our flat at half eight on a Sunday. With her own key. That isnt normal.”
“Whats the fuss? Shes family. Not some stranger.”
I sat beside him, snatched the remote, and turned off the telly. The silence made my next words louder.
“Paul, this is *our* home. *Our* space. I want to walk around naked if I fancy it. I dont want to wake up to the sound of a lock turning.”
“Oh, dont be dramatic,” he grimaced. “*Naked*, honestly. She cares, thats all.”
“Then she can leave her caring at the door. Or at least ring first. Lets ask for the keys back.”
Paul jolted as if scalded.
“Have you lost the plot? Take Mums keys? Thats an insult! Shes given *everything* for me, and Im to shut her out? Shell think were cutting her off!”
“And right now, shes cutting *us* out!” I snapped.
He stared at me like Id suggested robbing a bank. Fear and utter bewilderment filled his eyes. He didnt see the problem. To him, his mother with keys was as natural as the sun rising in the east.
A week later, light flooded the bedroom.
Five in the morning.
There stood Irene Barrow in a raincoat thrown over her nightdress, squinting in the glare, clutching Pauls mobile.
“Paul, love, you forgot your phone,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Saw you drive off, and there it was on the side. Thought Id bring it. Cant have you at work with no way to call.”
I sat up, dragging the duvet to my chin. My heart hammered in my throat. Paul mumbled something and rolled over.
Without a glance at me, she sidled up to his nightstand, set the phone down, then cast a critical eye about the room.
“My, its a bit dusty in here, Lottie. Needs a good wipe.”
With that, she left. The front door clicked shut.
I sat under the harsh light, staring at my sleeping husband. He hadnt even stirred. He didnt grasp what had just happened. That a line hadnt just been crossedit had been erased.
When he finally woke and Icalm as I couldtold him of the nighttime visit, he just waved it off.
“Lottie, she meant well. Worried about me.”
“Paul, she walked into our *bedroom*. At *five*.”
“So? She wasnt naked. Shes *family*.”
That same day, I rang her myself. My hands shook, but my resolve didnt.
“Mrs. Barrow, good afternoon. I wanted to talk about this morning.”
“Yes, Lottie?” Not a hint of unease.
“Please dont come in unannounced again. Especially that early. Especially to our bedroom.”
A thick silence. Then, coldly:
“Girl, I dont understand your attitude. I raised my son, put money into this flatsaved every penny for it. So remember this: Ill come in when I please. I have the keys.”
The line went dead.
I looked at Paul. Hed heard every word. But his eyes slid away.
“Nothing to say?” I asked when the dial tone became unbearable.
Paul shrugged, studying the wallpaper.
“What dyou want from me? You provoked her. Pushed her. Course she reacted like that.”
“Provoked her? By asking her not to barge into my bedroom?”
“You couldve said it nicer,” he finally met my gaze. No support there. Just weariness. “Youre never happy. Mum tries, and you”
I walked out, shutting the door firmly behind me.
That night, a wall went up between us. He didnt come after me. Didnt apologise. Just slept on the sofa, sighing loudly.
A week of quiet followed. Irene Barrow didnt appear. But her presence lingeredin Pauls tight lips when I suggested going out, in his hushed phone calls (“Just Mum”).
I felt like a stranger in my own home.
Then, on Wednesday, I fell ill. My throat burned; my head split. I took a sick day, dragged myself home, and decided a hot bath was the best medicine. Lavender salts, steaming waterI sank in, hoping to sweat out the fever.
I was nearly dozing when I heard it.
The scrape of a key in the lock.
I froze. My heart plummeted. Paul? No, he had hours left at work.
The door creaked open. Rustling. A familiar yap.
“Now then, Pip, lets see how our Lottie keeps house,” Irene Barrow trilled. “Dust everywhere, Ill bet.”
I sat rigid as the water cooled. Heard her poking aboutfridge opening, tongue clicking.
“Knew it. Barely a scrap. What do they live on? Poor Paul, probably starving.”
She was metres away, beyond a flimsy door. I imagined her swinging it open, and terror gripped me.
The helplessness was physical. This was meant to be *my* home, *my* fortress. And an invader had walked in while I lay defenceless.
When her footsteps moved to the kitchen, I slipped out, wrapped myself in a robe, and stepped into the hall.
She stood in the lounge, examining my books.
“Oh, Lottie, youre in?” Not a flicker of shame. “Brought you chicken brothhealing stuff. Paul said you were poorly.”
She gestured to a jar on the coffee table.
“Thank you, but it wasnt necessary,” I rasped. “I *asked* you to call first.”
“Dont be silly! Im *family*!” She flapped her hands. “Just wanted to help. Who else will look after you? Pauls at work, earning, and here you are, laid up.”
She reached for my forehead. I recoiled.
“Dont.”
That evening, when Paul returned, I was steel.
I told him everythingthe fear, the humiliation, the mocking jar of broth.
He listened silently. Then:
“Lottie, I dont know whats got into you. Mum *brought you soup*. She *cares*. And you twist it all wrong. Maybe the problems *you*.”
That night, I stared at the ceiling. Beside me, Paul snored softly. The man who shouldve been my shield. But hed chosen.
And so would I.
Next morning, the moment he left for work, I grabbed my phone. My hands were steady. I typed: *Emergency locksmith. 24/7.* And hit call.
The locksmith arrived within the houra burly man with tired eyes. Worked quickly, silently. The drills whine was music. Each screech a cry of freedom.
When he finished, he handed me two shiny new keys.
“There you are, love. Jobs done.”
I took them. Solid. Real. *My* fortress keys. I paid, and the door clicked shut behind hima new, firm sound. I turned the lock. Then again.
Perfect.
For the first time in months, I felt safe.
All day, I waited for Paul like a soldier for battle. Made dinner. Tidied. Rehearsed my words.
He came in exhausted, slung his briefcase onto a chair.
“Hello.”
“Hello.” I held out a key. “This is yours. I changed the locks.”
He blinked at it, then at me.
“You *what*?”
“I decided. No one walks into our home uninvited. *No one*.”
His face darkened.
“Youyou did this behind my back? Youve locked out my *mother*?”
“Ive protected our family. Our home.”
“Youve *torn* us apart!” he shouted. “What do I *tell* her?”
“The truth. That her sons grown. Has his own life.”
We yelled, neither backing down. I laid it all barethe fear, the betrayal. He wouldnt hear it. Duty, respect, *my* coldnessthats all he saw.
Then, mid-row, we heard it.
Scraping. The furious jangle of a key in a lock that wouldnt turn. Then pounding.
“Paul! Lottie! Open this door! Whats wrong with it?!”
Paul froze. Looked at me, at the door, where his mother was now hammering. Cornered.
The banging grew wilder.
“I *know* youre in there! Open up! *Lottie*, this is *your* doing!”
Paul took a breath, walked to the door, and opened it.
Irene Barrow stormed in, hair askew, face twisted.
“What have you *done*?!” she shrieked, jabbing a finger at me. “Locking *me* out?! After all I”
“Mum.” Pauls voice was quiet. Hard.
She gaped.
“*Mum*? You see what shes”
“I see,” he cut in, steel in his tone. “I see my wife had to do this because no one listened. Least of all me.”
He turned to her.
“This is *our* home. Mine and Lotties. And you *wont* walk in uninvited again. Understood?”
Irene Barrows mouth worked. She couldnt believe her ears.
“Paul, *love*”
“No love. Im a grown man. I decide who comes into my home. Now *leave*.”
Calm. Final.
She recoiled. Shot me a look of pure venom, then spun on her heel.
Paul shut the door. Turned the new lock. When he faced me, his eyes shone.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I was blind.”
He pulled me into his arms. And I knewId won. Not just a new lock. Id won back my husband. Our family.
Our life.
