**Diary Entry 12th March**
I can still hear my own voice trembling with barely contained fury. *»You have no right to behave like this in my home!»* I stood in the hallway, clutching my bag like a shield.
*»This is my flat, Margaret! Mine!»*
Something like contempt flickered in my mother-in-laws eyes.
*»What am I supposed to do when you cant even keep up with the cleaning?»* she hissed. *»Dust on the shelves, dishes in the sinkdo decent people live like this?»*
My grip on the bag handle tightened until my knuckles whitened. My chest burned with helpless frustration.
*»I work, Margaret! I dont always have the time»*
*»You make time for what matters,»* she snapped, lifting her chin as she marched to the door. *»Im only trying to help, and this is the thanks I get?»*
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me standing there, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the flat. I kicked off my heels and wandered from room to roomlounge, kitchen, bedroomeach bearing traces of Margarets *»help.»*
And the bedroomshe must have left just before I arrived. My favourite hand cream was missing from the nightstand. The little souvenir figurine from our holiday in Brighton was gone.
I paced like a caged animal, hands shaking. All Id wanted was a shower, a cuppa in my favourite mug but nothing was where it should be.
The front door clicked again. James was home. He took one look at me standing there, lost in the kitchen, and knew.
*»Emily, love, whats happened?»* He reached for me, but I pulled away.
*»Your mother was here again! She tidied our bedroom, James! Our bedroom! Dont you see how wrong that is?»*
He rubbed his forehead, a gesture I knew too wellhis way of stalling for words.
*»Em, she means well»*
*»Means well?»* My voice cracked. *»I cant find my phone charger! My favourite mugs gone missing! Shes even hidden the bloody bath towels!»*
He reached for my hands, but I stepped back.
*»She throws things away, James!»* I blinked back tears. *»Things that matter to me! And she calls it rubbish!»*
*»Mum just cares in her own way,»* he said gently. *»She likes things just so»*
*»Well, Im sick of it!»* I cut him off. *»Im tired of someone else playing housekeeper in my home!»*
I sank onto a chair, burying my face in my hands. James exhaled and wrapped his arms around me.
*»Im sorry, love. Ill talk to her, alright?»*
I gave a bitter laugh.
*»Oh, Im sure shell listen to you.»*
Somehow, he calmed me downmade tea, found my mug tucked at the back of the cupboard. But Margaret didnt stop.
Three days later, I came home to the lingering scent of her heavy, floral perfume. The tins in the kitchen had been rearranged by size. The fridge was *painfully* organised.
A week later, shed *»sorted»* my wardrobe. My favourite dress, always hung for easy reach, was crumpled on the top shelf.
Tears stung my eyes. This wasnt my home anymorejust a place where I had to guess what shed moved, thrown out, or *»fixed.»*
Then, the call came.
*»Yes, Mum Of course Saturday? Alright, well be there.»*
James turned to me with that guilty look.
*»Mums invited us for dinner. Says shes got news.»*
I froze.
*»Do we have to go?»*
*»Come on, Em,»* he sighed. *»Shes making your favourites. Even baked that lemon drizzle cake you like.»*
Saturday evening, we climbed the stairs to her flatno lift in that old council building. Every step felt like a betrayal. Id rather have been anywhere else.
*»Itll be fine,»* James squeezed my hand.
Dinner was a one-sided affairMargaret chatted with James about the neighbours, telly, the rising price of groceries. I pushed food around my plate.
*»Emily, not hungry?»* she finally asked.
*»Just thinking,»* I mumbled.
Then came her *»news.»*
*»Ive booked a spa retreat with Linda. Ten daysdoctors orders.»* She smiled, pulling a keyring from her apron pocket. *»Heres the spare. Water my plants, wont you?»*
I stared at those two keys. And thenI smiled.
The next week, my colleagues noticed the change. *»Youre cheerful,»* they said. Even James remarked on it over supper.
*»Bonus come through?»*
*»Just happy,»* I said lightly.
The day before Margarets return, I left work early*»dentists appointment.»*
Standing at her door, heart pounding, I turned the key.
*»My turn,»* I thought.
Sunday, we met her at the station. She looked refreshed, gushing about massages and new friends.
*»They served porridge with honey and walnutsdivine! Ill make it for you!»*
My stomach churned.
Thenshe opened her front door. And froze.
*»What is this?»*
Her gaze darted around the spotless flat*»tidy,»* but nothing was where it belonged.
*»My figurines!»* She lunged for the display cabinet. *»Where are they?!»*
She tore through the rooms, face flushing crimson, before whirling on me.
*»You!»* she spat. *»You did this!»*
I tilted my chin up, smiling.
*»Yes, me. I *helped.* Didnt you always say clutters just dust collectors?»*
James gaped, silent.
*»I threw out those old figurines,»* I added sweetly. *»And the chipped teacups. You never used them.»*
*»You had no right!»* Her voice rose to a shriek. *»This is my home!»*
*»Like my flat was mine?»* I said coolly. *»Unpleasant, isnt it?»*
*»James!»* she barked. *»Are you hearing this?!»*
I cut in. *»Oh, look at the timeweve got to dash. But dont worry, MargaretIll *thank* you properly next time!»*
I dragged James outside. Only on the pavement did he exhale.
*»Bloody hell, Em.»*
I grinned. Victory tasted sweet.
Two months later, Margaret hasnt set foot in our flat.
*I won. And I didnt even have to say sorry. The silence between us is louder than any argument, but I no longer dread the knock at the door. James still tenses when her name comes up, but he doesnt defend her anymore. Last week, I found my favourite mug back in its cupboardthe one shed hidden for monthswith a sticky note that simply read, *»For tea.»* No apology. No explanation. But it was enough. I made a cup, sat by the window, and sipped it slow, watching the rain blur the city lights. For the first time in years, the flat felt like mine.
