In the dim, flickering glow of the living room lamp, Jonathan felt as though he were trapped in a looping dream. “Mum, give me back the keys to the flat,” he said, voice brittle. “Because of you, Eleanor comes home late—I hardly see my own wife.” Every day like clockwork, his mother, Margaret, materialised at their doorstep, an uninvited shadow lingering in their home. She’d slip in and out, a spectre rifling through their lives, never asking, never warning.
At first, he’d dismissed Eleanor’s complaints—until his holiday left him stranded in the flat, forced to witness Margaret’s rituals. Like a relentless inspector, she arrived each evening after five, prying into every corner. Weekends were worse, her visits doubling, her scrutiny sharpening. She hated Eleanor—this was no secret—and so the battle waged over the most trivial things. The fridge was her battleground, the stove her tribunal.
She had her own keys—of course she did—and wielded them like a birthright. Leftovers vanished if they displeased her. Eleanor, desperate to avoid the storm, stayed late at the office, burying herself in work rather than face the tempest at home.
Then, one evening, Jonathan snapped.
Margaret stood hunched over the fridge, lips pursed in disgust. “This—this is supposed to be stew? Who cooks like this? There’s barely any proper meat in it! That wife of yours is no housekeeper. A man can’t live like this.”
Jonathan clenched his jaw. “Mum, *I* don’t mind. Eleanor and I *prefer* less meat. I asked her to leave it out. Stop digging through our pots.”
Margaret’s mouth twisted. “Oh, is that it? You’ve lost over a stone since you married! Your wife doesn’t take care of you—who *should*, if not her? Your *mother*, that’s who! And *this* is my thanks?”
“Mum, I *lost weight*—on *purpose*. Since when is being overweight a good thing? Do you *ever* think how *maddening* this is? Why did you throw out an entire bag of groceries yesterday? That’s *our* money!”
Margaret’s frown deepened. “That wasn’t food! Just processed rubbish.”
Jonathan held out his hand. “*Mum. Give me the keys.* Because of you, Eleanor stays out late—I barely see her! Just—give them back.”
“*What?*”
“Do I need to say it again?”
With a wounded sniff, Margaret slammed the keys onto the table and stormed out, her pride trailing behind her like a tattered cloak.
When Eleanor returned, she found Jonathan slumped in a chair, head in his hands.
“Jon? What happened? Was your mum here again? What did she hate this time?”
He gave a weary shrug, nodding at the keys on the table.
The realisation struck Eleanor like sunlight through fog. She nearly laughed—maybe she *did* laugh, the sound bubbling up like relief. No more invasions. No more judging eyes.
For the first time in years, the flat was truly theirs.
