**Diary Entry June 15th**
“Youve got no right to behave like this in my home!” Emilys voice trembled with barely contained fury. She stood in the hallway, clutching her handbag to her chest like a shield.
“This is *my* flat, Margaret! *Mine!*”
Something like contempt flickered in her mother-in-laws eyes.
“What am I supposed to do when you cant keep things tidy?” Margaret said through gritted teeth. “Dust on the shelves, dirty dishes in the sink. Is this how decent people live?”
Emilys grip on her bag tightened until her knuckles whitened. Her chest burned with frustration and helplessness.
“I *work*, Margaret! I dont always have time”
“You *make* time for what matters,” Margaret cut her off, chin lifted as she marched toward the door. “Im only trying to help, and this is the thanks I get?”
The door clicked shut, leaving Emily alone in the stifling silence of the flat. She kicked off her heels and pacedliving room, kitchen, bedroomeverywhere marked by Margarets “help.”
In the bedroom, the bedside table was bare. Her favourite hand creamgone. The little seashell ornament from their holiday in Cornwallvanished.
By the time Simon came home, Emily was a storm in human form.
“Em, whats happened?” he asked, reaching for her. She twisted away.
“Your mother was here again!” Her voice cracked. “She tidied our *bedroom*, Simon! Do you not see how wrong that is?”
Simon ran a hand through his hairthat familiar habit when he didnt know what to say.
“Love, she means well”
“*Means well?*” Emilys eyes darkened. “I cant find my phone charger! My favourite mugs missingIve been searching half an hour! And the bath towels? God knows where shes hidden them!”
Simon tried to take her hands, but she stepped back.
“She *throws things away*, Simon!” Emily swiped at angry tears. “Things that *mean* something to me! She calls it clutterjust rubbish to her!”
“Em, its how she shows she cares,” Simon said softly. “Her house has always been spotless”
“I dont *want* her care!” Emily snapped. “Im sick of someone else playing mistress in my home!”
She sank onto a chair, face in her hands. Simon knelt beside her, hesitantly touching her shoulder.
“Im sorry, sweetheart. Ill talk to her, alright? Ask her to stop.”
Emily gave a bitter laugh.
“Oh, shell *listen*, wont she?”
Simon managed to calm hermade tea, found her mug (wedged at the back of a cupboard). But Margaret didnt stop.
Three days later, Emily came home to the cloying scent of Margarets rose perfume. The kitchen jars had been rearranged by size. The fridgegroceries lined up like soldiers.
A week later, the wardrobe. Her favourite dress, always hanging ready, was crumpled on the top shelf.
Emily stared, swallowing tears. This wasnt her home anymorejust a place Margaret dictated.
Then, the call.
“Dinner tomorrow,” Simon said after hanging up. “Mums got news.”
Emily stiffened. “*Must* we?”
Simon sighed. “Come on, shes gone to trouble. Made that lemon tart you like.”
The flat smelled of roast beef and disapproval. Margaret chatted only to Simonneighbour gossip, telly dramas, the price of veg at the market. Emily pushed food around her plate.
“Ive decided,” Margaret announced, folding her hands. “Im off to Bournemouth with Cynthia. A little spa break. Ten days.” She slid a key across the table. “For the plants.”
Emily stared at the key. And smiled.
The next week, colleagues noticed her humming. Even Simon frowned over supper. “Youre cheerful. Bonus come through?”
Emily just grinned.
The day before Margarets return, Emily left work early. Stood outside Margarets door, heart pounding. *My turn.*
On Sunday, they met Margaret at the station. She looked refreshed, chatting about massages and seaside scones.
Thenshe unlocked her door. Froze.
Her flat was *spotless*. But nothing was where it should be.
“My figurines!” Margaret whirled to the cabinet. “*Where are they?*” She tore through drawers, face purpling. Then she rounded on Emily.
“You!” she hissed. “*You* did this!”
Emily tilted her chin. “I *helped*. Like you do for me.”
Margarets voice rose to a shriek. “How *dare* you throw my things”
“Unpleasant, isnt it?” Emily said sweetly. She looped her arm through Simons. “Oh, look at the time! Well pop round again soon, Margaret. Wouldnt want your *help* to go unthanked!”
Outside, Simon exhaled. “*Bloody hell*, Em.”
Emily grinned. Victory warmed her chest.
Two months onMargaret hasnt set foot in their flat since.
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes, the best way to teach respect is to hand it back*exactly* as given.
