Dont touch those boxes! Sarah snatched an old photo album from her husbands hands. Ill sort this out myself!
Paul raised an eyebrow.
Sarah, whats wrong? I was just trying to help with the move.
Help? she pressed the album to her chest. You threw away my postcard collection yesterday, called it junk!
But theyve been gathering dust on the loft for twenty years!
Thats memory! My memory of Grandmother!
Paul sighed, plopped onto the sofa amid the chaos of boxes and bags. They were shifting into a modest twobed flat in a council block on the outskirts of towna first home after five years of renting and a hardwon mortgage.
Sorry, he murmured. I didnt realise the postcards meant so much.
Sarahs tone softened as she sat beside him.
Im just exhausted. Ive been packing all day and Ive got work tomorrow.
Maybe take a day off?
Cant. Its the endofquarter crunch.
Paul wrapped an arm around his wife; she leaned into him. Five years of marriage had taught them to squash spats quickly, but lately arguments had flared more often. The chief instigator? Margaret, Pauls mother.
Margaret lived in the flat next door. When Paul suggested buying a place there, Sarah had initially liked the ideaconvenient commute, familiar neighbourhood. But the prospect of sharing a building with Margaret gave her pause.
Paul, should we look elsewhere?
Whats wrong with this spot? Its perfect, and Mum will be close.
Thats exactly what worries me.
Sarah, why are you being so dramatic? My mums lovely, you know that.
Sarah knew she was. Margaret was a decent woman, a primaryschool teacher whod raised Paul on her own after his parents split. Her flaw was a fierce possessiveness; she treated her son as the centre of the universe and eyed his wife with a jealous glare.
For the first few years, Margaret kept her distance, visiting once a week. A year ago she sold her flat and bought a studio in the same block, claiming she wanted to be nearer to her son. Since then her dropins multiplied: morning with scones, afternoon with advice, evening with complaints. Sarah put up with it, aware that Margaret was simply lonely.
Alright, Ill put the kettle on, Sarah said, rising from the sofa.
A knock at the door announced Margaret, pot in hand.
Hello, love! Brought you some bangers and mash. I know moving leaves little time to cook.
Thanks, Margaret, Sarah accepted the pot. Come in.
Margaret swept in, eyeing the mountain of cardboard.
Oh dear, what a lot of junk! Why so many things?
This isnt junk, Sarah snapped. These are our belongings.
No offence, dear. Its just that young folk these days hoard everything. In my day we made do with the bare minimum.
Paul emerged, embracing his mother.
Thanks for the food, Mum! We were starving.
My pleasure, love, Margaret beamed. Paul, youve put on weight! Is Sarah feeding you?
Im feeding him enough, Sarah replied dryly. Hes too busy at work to even eat properly.
Work is work, but lunch must be on schedule! You need proper nourishment!
Dont worry, Mum, weve got it covered.
They all settled at the kitchen table. Sarah reheated the stew, sliced some bread. Margaret stared at the chaos with a critical glint.
Sarah, why isnt the bread fresh?
Bought it yesterday. No time to pop to the shop today.
Yesterdays bread is unhealthy. You should buy fresh every day.
Were adults, well decide what to eat.
Oh, forgive me for caring! I just want Paul to be wellfed.
Mom, Im fine, Paul intervened. Sarah looks after me wonderfully.
Margarets smile wavered. She didnt quite believe him.
After dinner, Margaret announced shed be back tomorrow to help unpack.
Thanks, but well manage, Sarah said briskly.
What do you mean manage? I want to help!
Mom, really, weve got it, Paul added. You have school tomorrow, after all.
Ill be there after school. Around three.
She left, and Sarah sank into a chair, exhausted.
Paul, is she going to show up every day?
Not every day. Just while were in the middle of moving.
Your mum always wants to help, even when we dont need it.
Sarah, dont start. She means well.
I know, Im just fed up with the constant policing.
The next day, Sarah took a halfday off to keep the unpacking going. At three oclock, as promised, Margaret arrived, eyes widening at Sarahs newly arranged kitchen.
What a mess! she declared. The plates belong on the upper cupboard, the pots on the bottom!
It works better for me the other way round, Sarah said, trying to stay calm.
Works better? You just dont know how to organise a kitchen!
Margaret began shuffling dishes while Sarah counted silently to ten.
Please, just leave it as it is. This is my kitchen.
Your kitchen? Where will Paul cook?
He doesnt cook.
Thats because you never taught him! I used to get him to help, and you spoiled him!
Me? Spoiled him? Youre the one whos been coddling him all his life!
Sarah felt heat rise to her cheeks. Youre the one whos been spoiling him! He couldnt fry an egg before we married!
Watch your tone! Margaret shouted, waving her hands. Im not your friend!
Sorry, Sarah whispered, trying to keep the peace. Just please stop moving my dishes.
Margaret huffed, stopped the rearranging, and drifted into the living room, now critiquing the furniture layout.
The sofa should be against the other wall! And that old chest of drawerswhy keep it?
It belonged to my grandmother, Sarah said firmly. It stays.
Grandmother! Always the same old things! Get rid of the antiques!
Sarah slipped away to the bathroom, stared at herself in the mirror, and saw the toll the move and the constant meddling had taken.
That evening Paul came home, tired but smiling.
Hows it going? he asked.
Your mum dropped by, as usualfull of advice and criticism.
He sighed. Shell get used to it, eventually.
I doubt it. Shes lived next door for a year now.
I cant kick my own mother out.
Im not asking you to. Just talk to her. Explain that were adults.
He promised to try.
But the visits kept coming: soup one day, laundry the next, unsolicited comments about everything from dust on the shelves to Pauls shirt choice. Sarah tolerated it, knowing Margaret was lonely and that her son meant the world to her.
The breaking point arrived on a Saturday. Sarah woke with a pounding headache after a grueling workday and a marathon of cleaning. Paul was away on a threeday business trip. She could barely lift a hand. A knock at the door announced Margaret, pot in tow.
Sarah, Ive made some cabbage soup. Is Paul home?
Hes on a trip.
Fine, Ill leave it here.
Margaret set the pot on the stove. Sarah clung to the wall, trying not to faint.
Whats wrong with you? You look pale.
My head hurts. I need to lie down.
Headache? Must be from sitting around all day!
Sarah shuffled to the bedroom, collapsed under the blankets. Margaret buzzed around the flat, eventually barging into the bedroom.
Dont bother, Ill tidy up while youre down.
No, Ill manage later.
Dont be absurd! Look at that dust on the bedside table!
Sarah closed her eyes, counting the seconds until the noise stopped.
Through the thin walls of their block, she heard Margarets phone conversation.
Lena? Its me, Gilly. Yes, Im at the Smiths flat. Their daughters up with a headache, can you believe it? Saturday! Shes young, healthystill complains!
Women, love them or not, the voice on the line replied.
Margaret laughed. She cant even make a proper dinner! Yesterday they ate spaghetti with my sauce. Ill have to step in.
Sarah sat up, fury bubbling. She knocked hard on the shared wall.
Margaret! I hear everything!
Silence followed, then a muffled Ill be right there.
Margaret opened the door, eyes wide. What are you doing?
Im fed up. I heard every single thing you said.
The room fell into a tense hush.
Later that night, Paul called.
Hey, love, how are you?
Fine, Sarahs voice trembled.
Everything okay with my mum?
She called me a grumbling old hag and its over.
Im sorry, Ill come over and sort it out.
Dont. Ill handle it.
The next day Sarah called a locksmith and changed the locks. Margarets keys no longer worked.
Margaret still knocked, called, begged, but the door stayed shut. Neighbours whispered, curious about the feud.
When Paul finally returned from his trip, he found the flat quiet.
Hey, he said, Mums waiting downstairs. She wants to talk.
Im not inviting her in, Sarah replied. Shell have to respect my boundaries.
He stared at her, then sighed. Alright. Well see how long this lasts.
Weeks passed. Paul visited his mother once a week, but never brought her into the flat. Sarah enjoyed the peaceno unsolicited critiques, no earlymorning door bangs.
Then, just before Christmas, Margaret called.
Sarah, may I speak?
Yes.
Id like to apologisefor all the things I said, for overstepping.
Sarah paused. Alright, I accept.
May I come over for tea?
Sure, but no advice unless I ask.
Margaret arrived with a homemade cake, sipped tea politely, and left after an hour, thanking Sarah for the hospitality.
Paul asked later, Did it work?
Shes changed. She only comes when invited now.
The house felt like a home again. Sarah realised that drawing firm lines had finally earned her the respect she deserved. Her flat was her fortress once more, and her motherinlaw, while never quite a best friend, was now at least a courteous neighbour.
And that, she thought with a wry smile, is as good a victory as any.
