**Diary Entry**
*Friday, 12th May*
“I decide what happens in this house!” Her voice was sharp, commanding, like the crack of a whip behind me.
I turned, still clutching the porcelain ballerina figurinemy one fragile memory of Mum. In the doorway stood Zoe, tall and rigid, her icy stare unwavering. The conviction in her expression was clear: she believed she had every right to rearrange my life.
“I just wanted it on the shelf,” I murmured, the familiar tightness in my throat returning.
“The shelves are being reorganised,” she declared, sweeping a hand across the room. “This furniture is outdated. Tomorrow, a new set will arrivemodern, fresh. This old thing?” She nudged the dark oak dresser with her foot. “It can go to the holiday cottage, unless my brother objects.”
*Her brother.* Always “her brother.” James. My husband. His word, it seemed, no longer held weight here.
Zoe, his elder sister, had moved in three weeks ago after her messy divorcesupposedly just for a while. From day one, shed been edging me out of my own home, slow and methodical, like water eroding sand.
“This little table doesnt fit the new look,” she announced, grabbing the edge of my writing desk by the window, cluttered with my books and poetry notebooks.
“Wait!” The word burst out before I could stop myself. “My things are on there.”
“Everything will be packed neatly,” she said, already sliding the books onto the floor. “Theres plenty of spaceIve planned it all.”
I watched in silence as this stranger sifted through my life, tossing it aside like rubbish. The air grew thick, suffocating. Three years of marriage hadnt cured the shyness drilled into me at the childrens homethe fear of confrontation, of speaking up.
Dinner that evening was a tense affair. James kept his eyes on his plate, avoiding my gaze. Conflict always made him retreat.
“James, the new furniture must be expensive,” I ventured carefully. “Do we really need it? I liked the old pieces.”
“Lizzie, Zoe knows best,” he muttered, pushing peas around. “Shes got an eye for design. Itll freshen the place up.”
“But its *our* room,” I whispered, my words drowned out by Zoes brisk interruption.
“Exactly*freshen*,” she said, setting down her fork. “Youve got potential, Lizzie, but no boldness. A home reflects the soul. Its time you… *updated* yours.”
Her smile was sweet, venomous. My face burned. My “soul” had no room for such brute force.
“I dont *want* to update,” I said, barely above a whisper.
“Want or not, youll live in beauty and order,” Zoe retorted, stacking plates with deliberate clatter. “We start tomorrow. James, be home by ninethe deliverys coming.”
He nodded without looking up.
I barely slept that night, lying rigid beside James, his back turned. Zoes voice echoed*I decide what happens in this house.* Not a whim. A takeover.
Morning brought chaos. Men hauled in flat-pack boxes while Zoe directed them, dismantling my room.
“Careful!” I cried as one bumped my bookcase. “The glass”
“Relax, Ive got it under control!” Zoe waved a printed layout like a generals map.
I stood in the hallway, hollow. My thingsbooks, trinketswere shoved into bin bags, pushed aside. James had vanished, citing work calls.
By noon, the room was barren. Bare walls, dust outlines where furniture had stood. It felt lifeless.
“Look at this space!” Zoe beamed as if shed bestowed a gift. “Once we assemble the new set, youll love it.”
“I dont recognise it now,” I said quietly.
“Dont be dramatic! Its a fresh start!” Her hand on my shoulder was false, unwelcome.
I watched the men piece together sleek, chrome-trimmed furniturestylish, soulless, *not mine*. Zoe orchestrated it all.
“The sofa here, the armchair opposite. And *this*” She gestured to my potted plants on the old stand. “has to go. Too shabby.”
“Where?” My voice cut through, clear and firm.
She turned, startled.
“The shed. Or the balcony. Those pots are ghastly.”
“Theyre *alive*,” I said. “They stay.”
Silence fell. The workmen paused, exchanging glances. Zoe straightened, studying me.
“Lizzie, we agreed on a cohesive style.”
“I agreed to *nothing*.” My hands shook, but something inside me held steady. “This is *my* room. My plants stay.”
“Darling, I only”
“And the shabby furniture? *I* bought it. With *my* money. Or do I have no say in my own home?”
Zoe gaped. Shed never heard me speak like this. Neither had I.
“II just want whats best,” she faltered.
“Best for *whom*?” I stepped forward. “Youre a guest here, Zoe. A *temporary* one. And while you are, youll respect my home. My rules.”
I turned to the workmen. “Sorry, lads. Thats all for today. Leave everything as it is.”
Zoe spluttered. “Are you *serious*? Were nearly done!”
“I said *leave*.” I touched the ficuss damp soil. “You can go.”
She hissed something, but the men packed up.
That evening, the storm broke. James returned to Zoes tirade.
“After all Ive doneand your *mousy* wife throws a fit, wastes money!”
He slumped at the table. I set his dinner down silently.
“Liz, whats got into you?” he sighed.
“Nothing,” I said. “I just wont be walked over anymore.”
“*Walked over*?” Zoe screeched. “Im trying to live decently! She clings to her junk like aa *curator*!”
“That junk is my life,” I said, steel in my tone. “And no one tosses it out. *No one*.”
James looked between us, exhaustion and something like surprise on his face.
“Zoe, maybe it *was* too much, too fast?”
“*What*?” She looked betrayed. “Im *helping*! Giving you a stylish home!”
“We *had* one,” I said. “Before you came.”
A heavy silence. Zoes breath was ragged. James rubbed his temples.
“Fine. Well sort it ourselves. No more… extremes.”
Zoe stormed out.
James poked at his food. “Why provoke her? Shes fragile after the divorce.”
“*Im* fragile after her visits,” I countered. “James, this is *our* home. *We* decide. Together.”
He met my eyesreally *looked* at mefor the first time in ages.
“Alright. Ill talk to her.”
But the talk failed. Next morning, Zoe didnt appear for breakfast. In the living room, my belongings were back in their old places. Half-assembled new furniture stood awkwardly beside the old. My plants stood proud.
Not victory. A truce. Temporary.
Tension hung like storm clouds. Zoe retaliated subtlymoving my things, leaving dishes, bragging to friends about women who “keep husbands in line.” I waited.
Then, Friday evening:
“Guests tomorrow,” Zoe announced. “My friends. A housewarming.”
“*Housewarming*?” James frowned.
“I live here now,” she smiled. “Lizzie, prepare something nice. And *clean*. The place is a tip.”
I set down my spoon. James studied the tablecloth.
“*Youll* clean,” I said, quiet but firm. “*Youll* cook. Theyre *your* guests.”
Zoes eyes widened. “But Im hosting!”
“Im busy. Out all day.”
“*Doing what*? Staring at walls?”
“No,” I stood. “Visiting a friend.”
Silence. Even James looked up.
“Youre *mad*,” Zoe hissed. “Leave me alone with guests? In a strange city?”
“*Youre* the stranger here,” I said. “*My* city. *My* home. Host them yourselfor wait until Im free. But I wont be. Tomorrow. Or anytime soon.”
I left. My hands trembled, but my chest felt light.
Next day, I left early. Returned late to perfume, wine, laughter. Zoe and three glamorous women lounged on the new sofa, empty bottles at their feet.
“Youre *back*,” Zoe drawled. “Guests are leaving.”
“
