**Eye for an Eye**
«You have no right to behave like this in my home!» Emily’s 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-law’s eyes.
«And what am I supposed to do when *you* can’t be bothered to tidy up?» Margaret hissed through gritted teeth. «Dust on the shelves, dirty dishes in the sink. Is this how decent people live?»
Emily gripped her bag strap so tightly her knuckles turned white. Resentment and helplessness boiled inside her.
«I *work*, Margaret! I dont always have time»
«You *make* time for what matters,» Margaret cut in, tilting her chin up before marching toward the door. «I’m only trying to help, and this is the thanks I get?»
The door clicked shut, leaving Emily alone in the hallway. The flats silence pressed against her ears, but the storm inside her raged on. She kicked off her heels and wandered into the living room, then the kitchen, then the bedroomeverywhere marked by Margarets «helpful» touch.
And the bedroom… Margaret must have finished tidying mere minutes before she arrived. The hand cream from the nightstand was gone. The little souvenir figurine from their holiday had vanished from the dresser.
Emily paced like a caged animal, her hands shaking with anger. Shed come home exhausted, dreaming of a shower, tea in her favourite mug… and now, in her *own* flat, she couldnt find a thing. Everything was out of place.
The front door clicked. Oliver was back from work. One look at his wife, standing bewildered in the kitchen, and he knewsomething was wrong.
«Em, whats happened?» He moved to hug her, but she twisted away.
«Your mother was here *again*!» Her voice cracked. «She ‘cleaned’ our bedroom, Olly! The *bedroom*! Do you not see how mental that is?»
Oliver sighed heavily, running a hand through his haira telltale sign he was out of his depth.
«Em, she means well…»
«*Means well?*» Emilys eyes darkened. «I cant find my phone charger! My favourite mugs missingIve been looking for half an hour! And shes hidden the *towels*!»
Oliver tried to take her hands, but she retreated to the window.
«She throws things away, Olly!» Emily blinked back tears. «Things that *matter* to me! But she calls them clutter!»
«Em, shes just… fussy,» Oliver said gently. «Her place has always been spotless»
«Im *sick* of her fussing!» Emily snapped. «Im sick of her rearranging *my* home like she owns it!»
She sank onto a chair, face in her hands, shoulders shaking. Oliver carefully wrapped his arms around her.
«Sorry, love. Ill talk to her, alright? Ill ask her to stop.»
Emily gave a bitter laugh.
«Oh, shell *totally* listen. I believe that.»
Oliver managed to calm her, making tea and locating her mugtucked away at the back of a cupboard.
But Margaret didnt stop.
Three days later, Emily came home and *knew*. Margaret had been there againthe air reeked of her cloying perfume. The kitchen jars were rearranged by size. The fridge contents were organised with infuriating precision.
Too drained for another row, Emily collapsed onto the sofa, fury simmering.
A week later, it happened again. This time, Margaret had «tidied» the wardrobe. All Emilys clothes had been reshuffled. Her favourite dress, always hung for easy access, was crumpled on the top shelf.
Standing before the open wardrobe, Emily swallowed angry tears. Her home no longer felt like hers. Every evening, she wondered*Had Margaret been here? Whats been moved now?*
Then came Fridays phone call.
«Yeah, Mum… Of course… Saturday? Well be there… Yeah, Ill tell her.»
Oliver turned to Emily, sheepish.
«Mums invited us for dinner tomorrow. Says shes got news.»
Emily froze.
«Do we *have* to?»
«Em, dont be childish. Shes gone to troublecooked your favourites, even baked that lemon drizzle you like.»
Saturday evening, they climbed the stairs to Margarets third-floor flat (no lift in the old building). Each step felt heavier. Emily wouldve rather been at the dentist.
«Itll be fine,» Oliver squeezed her hand.
Dinner was a one-woman showMargaret chatted to Oliver about the neighbours, telly, supermarket prices. Emily pushed food around her plate in silence.
«Arent you hungry, Emily?» Margaret finally asked.
«Just thinking,» Emily muttered.
«Well,» Margaret set down her fork. «My news. Im off to a spa retreat with Maureen. Ten days. Doctors orders.»
«Brilliant, Mum!» Oliver beamed. «You need a break.»
«Exactly.» Margaret fished a keyring from her apron. «Heres my spare set. Pop in to water my plants, wont you?»
Emily stared at the keys. Two on a plain ring. A plan began forming. She smiled.
The next week, Emily was *glowing*. Colleagues noticedhumming at her desk, grinning at emails.
«Whats got into you?» Oliver asked mid-week. «Bonus come through?»
«Just happy,» Emily said airily.
The day before Margarets return, Emily left work early»doctors appointment.»
Now, heart pounding, she stood at Margarets door, key in hand. *My turn.*
On Sunday, they collected Margaret from the station. She looked radiant, gushing about massages, new friends, the spas «healing porridge.» Emily stayed silent, stomach in knots.
Margaret unlocked her doorand froze.
«What… *What is this?*» Her voice shook.
The flat was spotless. But *everything* was out of place.
«My figurines!» Margaret lunged for the display cabinet. «Where are they?!»
She tore through rooms, yanking open drawers, face purpling. Then she whirled on Emily, eyes blazing.
«*You!*»
«Yep,» Emily said sweetly, chin high. «Surprise! I *helped*.» She fluttered her lashes. «Didnt want you coming home to a mess.»
Oliver gaped, wisely staying silent.
«Oh, and» Emily feigned innocence. «I binned those dusty old figurines. And the china you never use. Just *clutter*, right? Like my things?»
«You *wretched girl!*» Margaret shrieked. «How *dare* you»
«You did the same to *my* home,» Emily said coolly. «Feels rotten, doesnt it?»
«Oliver!» Margaret rounded on him. «Are you hearing this?!»
Emily checked her watch. «Blimeywere late! Ta for dinner, Margaret. Ill *definitely* return the favour next time you *help*.»
She dragged a shell-shocked Oliver outside. Only on the pavement did he exhale.
«Bloody hell, Em…»
Emily grinned. Victory was *sweet*.
Two months later, Margaret still hadnt set foot in their flat.
*Game, set, match,* Emily thought smugly.
