Sparks of Retribution in a Quiet Home
Dusk settles over the small town of Heatherbrook, draping the streets in a soft twilight. Paul returns home from work, tired but content. In the hallway, his wife, Emily, greets him with a warm smile and the smell of freshly cooked sausages.
“Hello, love. Fancy some dinner? I’ve done bangers and mash,” she says, adjusting her apron.
“Course I do,” Paul replies, toeing off his shoes. He pulls a set of keys from his pocket and tosses them carelessly onto the side table.
Emily spots the unfamiliar keys and narrows her eyes.
“What are these for?”
“Mum’s gone to a health retreat for three weeks,” Paul explains, rubbing his neck. “Asked me to keep an eye on her flat, left me the keys.”
Suddenly, Emily’s eyes gleam with mischief, almost ominously. She claps her hands and exclaims, “Finally! I’m doing it!”
Paul freezes, baffled. His wife, usually calm and composed, looks like she’s plotting something grand.
“What? Doing what?” he asks, growing uneasy.
Emily only smiles mysteriously, but the determination in her gaze sends a chill down Paul’s spine.
A few weeks ago, their lives had been turned upside down. Returning from a week-long visit to Emily’s parents, they found their flat unrecognisable. The wallpaper they’d painstakingly chosen for the hallway had been replaced with garish, gaudy floral print. The furniture in the living room and bedroom was rearranged—the wardrobe now blocked the middle of the room, and the bed faced the window, disrupting the cosy feel.
“What on earth?” Emily gasps, dropping her bag in shock as they step inside.
Paul peers over her shoulder, trying to make sense of it. His stomach knots with dread.
“Who did this?” Emily’s voice trembles with fury.
“Calm down,” Paul says, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Let’s sort this out.”
But the more they looked around, the worse it got. The sofa had been shoved against the window, the telly moved to a corner. The chest of drawers in the bedroom now stood where the mirror once hung. Chaos reigned—and the culprit was obvious: Paul’s mother, Margaret.
A month earlier, Margaret had swooped in for an “inspection.” From the moment she walked in, she criticised everything—the “dull” wallpaper, the furniture arrangement.
“These walls look like a care home!” she huffed, shaking her head. “You need something cheerful to brighten the place!”
“We like it as it is,” Emily replied tersely, forcing a smile.
“Nonsense! No wonder you’re always tense—living in such dreariness!” Margaret carried on, ignoring their protests. “And this furniture is all wrong. The wardrobe belongs in the corner, not the middle of the room! And who puts a bed facing the window?!”
Emily bit her tongue. Paul gave her a look—arguing with his mother was pointless. Margaret could lecture for hours on how they “should” live. Eventually, she left, leaving behind a cloud of disapproval. Paul and Emily sighed in relief, hoping that was the end of it.
But then they had to travel for Emily’s mother’s birthday. Their cat, Whiskers, needed looking after, and Paul suggested asking Margaret. Emily was vehemently against it:
“You want to give her keys? She’ll redecorate the whole place!”
But they had no other option. Reluctantly, Emily agreed, giving strict instructions on feeding Whiskers, changing his water, and where his toys were. Every day, she called to check in. Margaret answered curtly—”Everything’s fine”—and hung up. That should’ve been a red flag, but Emily dismissed her unease.
When they got home, they realised Margaret hadn’t just fed the cat. She’d staged a full-blown takeover.
“What do we do now?” Emily sighed, staring at the ghastly wallpaper and jumbled furniture.
“We’ll move things back, redo the wallpaper,” Paul said. “It’ll cost time and money. I can call Mum right now and give her a piece of my mind.”
Emily wiped her eyes, and then—slowly—a sly grin spread across her face.
“No need,” she said, voice steely. “I’ve got a better idea. Your mum’s going to that retreat soon, isn’t she?”
Paul nodded, still lost. Emily winked, and her plan took shape.
When Margaret left for her retreat, handing Paul her spare keys, Emily practically glowed with anticipation.
“Finally, she’ll see how it feels!” she declared, jingling the keys.
Paul, though hesitant, agreed to back her up. Margaret had this coming.
For three weekends, they worked quietly in Margaret’s flat while she was away. Emily swapped the loud, patterned wallpaper for soft pastels with delicate floral designs—the exact opposite of Margaret’s garish taste. Paul helped rearrange the furniture—the dresser was moved to the hall, new shelves replaced the old ones they’d deemed “unsuitable.” They even added a few decorative touches to “freshen things up.”
When Margaret returned, she was stunned. Stepping inside, she gaped in horror.
“What have you done?!” she shrieked, dialling Paul immediately. “Where’s my rose wallpaper? Who picked this insipid rubbish? Who gave you the right?!”
Paul stayed calm.
“We thought your place needed a more peaceful vibe. At your age, something serene would do you good.”
“Is this a joke?!” Margaret fumed. “You had no right! I trusted you with my keys, and you—why is the dresser in the hall? What are these awful shelves? Fix it now!”
“We’re not done yet,” Paul cut in. “Now tell me—why did you think we’d like your little makeover in *our* home?”
Silence. For the first time, Margaret seemed to grasp the weight of her actions.
“That’s different!” she spat. “I was *helping*. This—this is just tasteless!”
“Regardless, our home is ours,” Paul said firmly. “If you don’t want your sofa ending up on the balcony next time, stay out of our business.”
Margaret went quiet, stunned. The conversation was a wake-up call. From then on, she kept her opinions to herself, steering clear of any talk about decor. Emily, triumphant, finally felt their home was truly theirs again.