Sparks of Retribution in a Quiet Home
Evening settles over the small town of Heatherbrook, casting the streets in a soft twilight haze. Paul returns home from work, weary but content. In the hallway, his wife, Emily, greets him with a warm smile and the scent of freshly made meat pies.
“Hello, love. Fancy some supper? I’ve just fried up some pies,” she says, straightening her apron.
“Absolutely,” Paul replies, untying his boots. He fishes a set of keys from his pocket and tosses them carelessly onto the side table.
Emily notices an unfamiliar set among them and squints.
“What are these keys for?”
“Mum’s off to a spa retreat for three weeks,” Paul explains, rubbing his neck. “Asked me to keep an eye on her flat—left her keys with me.”
Suddenly, Emily’s eyes gleam with mischief—almost sinister. She claps her hands and exclaims,
“Finally! I’ll do it!”
Paul freezes, bewildered. His wife, normally calm and reserved, looks like she’s plotting something grand.
“What? Do what?” he asks, staring at her with growing unease.
Emily only offers a mysterious smile, but the determination in her gaze sends a chill down Paul’s spine.
A few weeks earlier, their lives had been turned upside down. Returning home after a week visiting Emily’s parents, they found their flat unrecognisable. The wallpaper in the hallway, carefully chosen together, had been replaced with garish, clashing patterns. The furniture in the lounge and bedroom was rearranged—the wardrobe now stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, the bed facing the window, disrupting all sense of comfort.
“What on earth?” Emily drops her bag, stunned, barely stepping over the threshold.
Paul peers over her shoulder, struggling to process what he sees. His chest tightens with horror.
“Who did this?” Emily’s voice trembles with fury. “This isn’t our home!”
“Take a breath,” Paul soothes, resting his hands on her shoulders. “We’ll figure it out.”
But the deeper they explore, the clearer it becomes—chaos, all thanks to Paul’s mother, Margaret.
A month prior, Margaret had descended upon their flat for an “inspection.” From the moment she stepped inside, she criticised everything—the “drab” wallpaper, the “poorly arranged” furniture.
“These walls look like a care home! You need something vibrant, something to lift the spirits!” she declared, shaking her head disapprovingly.
“We like it as it is,” Emily replied tightly, fighting to keep her irritation in check.
“Nonsense! No wonder you’re always on edge—it’s depressing! And this furniture is all wrong. The wardrobe should be in the corner, not blocking the room! And the bed? Facing the wrong way entirely!”
Emily opened her mouth to argue, but Paul’s warning glance stopped her. He knew—reasoning with Margaret was pointless. She left, leaving behind a cloud of tension. Paul and Emily sighed in relief, hoping that was the end of it.
But then they had to leave town for Emily’s mother’s birthday. Their cat, Whiskers, couldn’t be left alone, so Paul suggested asking Margaret to look after him. Emily was adamantly against it.
“You want to give her the keys? She’ll start meddling again!”
But with no one else to watch Whiskers, Emily reluctantly agreed—though she gave strict instructions on feeding times and toy locations. Every day, she called to check in. Margaret’s replies were curt—”Everything’s fine”—before hanging up. It should have been a red flag, but Emily brushed it off.
When they returned home, they realised Margaret hadn’t just fed the cat. She’d redecorated their entire flat.
“What do we do now?” Emily asks, exhausted, surveying the unfamiliar walls and misplaced furniture.
“We’ll move everything back. Re-paper the walls,” Paul sighs. “It’ll take time and money. I could call Mum right now and give her a piece of my mind.”
Emily wipes her tears—then suddenly, a sly smile spreads across her face.
“No need,” she says, determination lacing her voice. “I’ve got a better idea. Isn’t your mum going to that spa soon?”
Paul nods, still lost. Emily merely winks, and her plan takes shape.
When Margaret leaves for her retreat, handing over her keys, Emily practically glows with anticipation.
“Finally, I’ll show her how it feels!” she declares, jingling the keys.
Paul, though hesitant, agrees. Margaret deserves this lesson.
For three weekends, they visit her flat while she’s away. Quietly, they strip her bold floral wallpaper, replacing it with subtle pastel prints—the exact opposite of Margaret’s taste. Paul helps rearrange furniture—the wardrobe moves to the hall, the lounge shelves replaced with “more suitable” designs. They even add a few decor touches Emily deems “refreshing.”
When Margaret returns, she gasps in horror.
“What have you done?!” she shrieks, dialling Paul immediately. “Where’s my damask wallpaper? What is this insipid nonsense? Who gave you the right?!”
Paul keeps his voice steady.
“We thought your decor was too loud. At your age, something peaceful is better for relaxation.”
“Is this a joke?!” Margaret splutters. “You had no right! I trusted you with my keys, and you—why is the wardrobe in the hallway? What are these ridiculous shelves?! Put everything back!”
“We’re not finished yet,” Paul cuts in. “Now tell me—why did you think we’d like *your* changes in *our* home?”
Silence. For the first time, Margaret seems to grasp the consequences of her actions.
“That’s—that’s different!” she finally stammers. “I was trying to help! This is… tasteless!”
“Regardless, our home is ours,” Paul says firmly. “If you don’t want your sofa on the balcony next time, stay out of our lives.”
Margaret falls quiet, stunned. The lesson sinks in. From then on, she never interferes again—avoiding any talk of redecorating. Emily, satisfied, finally feels their home is truly theirs.
