**Tit for Tat**
“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 said through gritted teeth. “Dust on the shelves, dirty dishes in the sink. Is this how respectable people live?”
Emily gripped her bag strap so hard her knuckles turned white. Inside, she was a storm of resentment and helplessness.
“I *work*, Margaret! I dont always have time”
“You *make* time for what matters,” Margaret cut in, lifting her chin 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 silent flatthough silence was the last thing she felt. She kicked off her heels and stomped into the living room, then the kitchen, then the bedroom. Everywhere bore the marks of Margarets “help.”
And the bedroom… Her mother-in-law had clearly just finished “tidying” before Emily arrived. The hand cream was missing from the nightstand. The little souvenir figurine from their holiday was gone from the dresser.
Emily paced like a trapped animal, hands shaking with rage. Shed come home exhausted, dreaming of a shower, a cuppa in her favourite mug… Now, in her own flat, she couldnt find *anything*.
The front door clicked. Oliver was back from work. One look at his wifestanding lost in the middle of the kitchenand he knew.
“Em, love, whats happened?” He reached for her, but she twisted away.
“Your *mother* was here again!” Emilys voice cracked. “She *cleaned* our *bedroom*, Olly! Do you have *any* idea how mental that is?”
Oliver sighed, running a hand through his haira gesture Emily knew too well. It meant he had no defence.
“Em, she means well…”
“*Means well?!*” Her eyes darkened. “I cant find my phone charger! My favourite mugs vanishedIve been looking for half an hour! And the *towels*where on earth has she put them?”
He reached for her hands, but she stepped back to the window.
“She *throws things away*, Olly!” Emily blinked back tears. “*My* things! And she calls them *clutter!*”
“Mums just being thoughtful,” Oliver said gently. “She likes everything in its place…”
“Well, her *thoughtfulness* is making me sick!” Emily snapped. “Im *done* with another woman ruling *my* home! She moves things, decides what I needIm *exhausted*, Olly!”
She sank onto a chair, face in her hands. Oliver hesitated, then hugged her.
“Sorry, love. Ill talk to her, alright? Ask her to stop.”
Emily gave a bitter laugh.
“Oh, shell *listen*, will she? Pull the other one.”
Somehow, Oliver calmed her. Made tea. Found her mugtucked in the back of the cupboard like contraband.
But Margaret didnt stop.
Three days later, Emily came home and *knew*. The air smelled of her mother-in-laws heavy, cloying perfume. The kitchen jars had been reorganised by size. The fridge was a monument to irritating precision.
Emily collapsed onto the sofa, too drained for another row.
A week later, it happened again. This time, Margaret had “sorted” the wardrobe. Emilys favourite dressalways hung for easy accesswas crumpled on the top shelf.
Standing there, swallowing tears, Emily realised: her home wasnt hers anymore. Every evening, she wondered*has she been here? Whats missing now?*
Then, Friday night. The call.
“Yeah, Mum… Sure… Saturday? Well be there.” Oliver turned, sheepish. “Dinner at Mums tomorrow. Says shes got news.”
Emily froze.
“Do we *have* to?”
“Em, dont be childish. Shes gone to troublemade your favourites.”
Saturday evening, they climbed the stairs to Margarets fifth-floor flat (no lift in the old building). Emily dragged her feet. Shed rather be *anywhere*stuck at work, crammed on the Tube, even at the dentist.
“Itll be fine,” Oliver squeezed her hand. “She baked that pie you liked.”
Emily forced a smile.
Dinner was Margaret monologuingneighbours, telly, market prices. Emily pushed food around her plate.
“Emily, not hungry?” Margaret finally addressed her.
“Just thinking.”
“Right,” Margaret set down her fork. “My news. Im off to a spa retreat with Cynthia. Ten days.”
“Brilliant, Mum!” Oliver beamed. “You deserve a break.”
“Indeed.” Margaret produced a keyring. “Heres my spare. Pop in to water the plants, would you?”
Emily stared at the keys. Two on a plain metal ring. A plan unfolded in her mind. She smiled.
The next week, colleagues noticedEmily was *cheerful*. Humming at her desk.
“Someones happy,” Oliver remarked over dinner. “Bonus come through?”
“Just in a good mood,” she said airily.
The day before Margarets return, Emily left work early. “Doctors appointment.”
Now, outside Margarets door, heart pounding, she turned the key. *My turn.*
On Sunday, they collected Margaret from the station. She looked radiant, chattering about treatments, new friends, the food.
“Porridge with honey and nuts! Ill make it at home.”
Emily stayed quiet, stomach churning.
Margaret opened her front doorand froze.
“What… *what is this?*”
The flat was *spotless*. But nothing was where it should be.
“My figurines!” Margaret lunged for the cabinet. “Where are they?”
She tore through rooms, yanking drawers open. Face purpling, she whirled on Emily.
“*You!*”
Emily smiled sweetly. “Me.” She clasped her hands. “Dont you like it? I *helped*. Tidied while you were away.”
Oliver gaped, wisely silent.
“Ohand I binned those old figurines. And the teacups. You never used them, just dust collectors. *Clutter*, wasnt it?”
“You *dare*” Margarets voice rose to a shriek. “My home! My things!”
“*Our* home, *my* thingsremember?” Emily said coolly. “Not nice, is it?”
“Oliver!” Margaret rounded on him. “Are you hearing this?!”
Emily checked her watch. “Blimey, look at the time! Places to be.” She hauled Oliver out.
Outside, he exhaled. “*Bloody hell*, Em.”
She grinned. Warm satisfaction spread through her.
Two months later, Margaret hadnt set foot in their flat.
*Game, set, match.*
