My Mother-in-Law Took It Upon Herself to Redecorate My Kitchen to Suit Her Taste While I Was at Work

Lydia, could you keep an eye on Mum while Im at work? Please, you know how much that kitchen remodel set me back and how Im still shaking over the new cabinets, Poppy said, fidgeting with the strap of her handbag in the hallway.

Mark, polishing off his morning coffee, waved a lazy hand.

Poppy, why are you getting so worked up? Mums only here for a week while the plumbers sort out the pipes upstairs. Shes not trying to wreck us, is she? She’ll just make a pot of stew you wont have to stand over the stove in the evening.

Stew is lovely, but Im begging you, make sure she doesnt start improving the space. Remember how she turned the bland wallpaper in our old flat into a dolphinbordered corridor? I spent a week scrubbing the glue off, Poppy warned.

Come on, let bygones be bygones. She just wants it cosy. Get a move on, youll be late. Im working from home today, Ill keep an eye on things, Mark replied.

Poppy exhaled heavily, planted a quick kiss on Marks cheek, and headed out. Her heart was in knots. The kitchen was her sanctuary, her pride, the place where shed spent three months with a designer picking the perfect matte charcoal finish for the cabinets, a natural stone worktop, hidden handles, and no clutter of magnets or gaudy towels. Minimalism had cost her a small fortune, and any scratch felt like a personal wound.

Evelyn Harper, Poppys motherinlaw, a boisterous, opinionated woman with an unshakable sense of style, had arrived the night before. Shed scanned the flat with a critical eye and announced, Young people have a hospitallike kitchen spotless but nothing to look at. Poppy had brushed it off as travel fatigue.

The workday dragged on. Poppy kept reaching for her phone to call Mark, but she reminded herself that he was an adult and had promised to watch. Besides, she had an important report to finish and didnt want to look unprofessional.

At lunch she finally gave in.

Hows Mum? she asked.

Fine, Marks voice was oddly chipper, a hint of tension underneath. Mums uh doing a bit of housekeeping. Shes baked a cake. The smells drifting through the whole block!

A cake? Did she turn the oven on? Tinker with the touchpanel? Theres a safety lock on that thing, Poppy snapped.

Shes sorted it, shes clever. Ive got a Zoom meeting, love, well talk tonight. Bye, love! he hung up.

Poppy stared at the phone, puzzled. Doing a bit of housekeeping could mean anything from washing dishes to rearranging furniture.

The rest of the day went by on pins and needles. She imagined greasy smudges on the matte panels, chips in the stone, melted plastic boards. But the reality waiting for her at home was even worse than her worst nightmare.

She stepped out of the lift and was hit by the smell of fried onions, yeasty dough and, inexplicably, bleach. With a key in hand she swung the front door.

Im home! she shouted, kicking off her shoes.

Silence answered, punctuated only by Evelyns cheery humming and the clatter of dishes. Poppy slipped down the hallway; the kitchen door was ajar. She crossed the threshold and dropped her bag in shock.

Her sleek charcoalhued kitchen had vanished.

First thing she saw was colour loud, unapologetic colour.

The pristine stone worktop was now covered in a bright orange plastic tablecloth dotted with gigantic sunflowers. The edges hung in uneven waves, draping over the lower drawers.

Ah, Poppys here! Evelyn chirped, twirling in a flamboyant floral apron that Poppy had never owned. Were having a little snack feast! Ive been up since dawn kneading dough. Look at this!

Poppy could barely speak. Her eyes darted around, cataloguing the disaster.

The matte grey cabinet faces, the ones that should never be sanded, were now plastered with vinyl stickers pink, blue and mintgreen butterflies the size of a palm, slapped haphazardly on every door.

Evelyn Poppy croaked, feeling her left eye twitch. What on earth?

The butterflies? I picked them up on my way to the shop for milk. Brighten things up a bit! Your place was all doom and gloom, like a crypt. Now its summer, joy! Evelyn laughed, patting a stack of pastries.

Mark appeared in the doorway, looking guilty and slightly bewildered, his socks flashing under the light.

Mum, I told you Poppy might not like this he muttered.

Whats there to like? Ive added comfort! An expensive kitchen needs a soul, otherwise its just cold stone, Evelyn declared, waving a wooden spoon.

Poppy stepped toward the window. Her favourite Romanstyle curtains, a deep wet asphalt grey, were gone, replaced by a fluffy white lace curtain with golden swan embroideries.

Where are my curtains? Poppy whispered.

Theyre in the wash, Evelyn said, flipping a sizzling pastry in the pan. They were dusty, I thought Id freshen them up. Look how bright it is now, like a palace!

Poppy lifted the edge of the sunflowercovered cloth and found a sticky patch underneath.

This cloth on a stone surface? You cant just cover it, she protested.

The stones cold, youll get chapped elbows! I rolled out dough, didnt want to get it dirty. I just wiped the cloth with a rag practical, cheap from B&M, and it looks lovely.

Her temper boiled. She glanced at the refrigerator, a twometre steel monolith shed forbidden anyone to touch. It was now a magnet board, peppered with tiny piglets, cats and miniature Golden Ring towns.

Where did these come from? Poppy asked, pointing shakily.

Theyre mine! I brought them from Brighton when we were there for Marks birthday. Thought the fridge needed some life, Evelyn replied proudly.

Poppy took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Anton, may I have a word in the bedroom? she said, her voice icecold.

Mark ducked his head and followed her. Evelyn shouted after them, Dont whisper, love, itll freeze the room! Come eat while its hot!

In the bedroom Poppy slammed the door and leaned against it.

You promised to watch. she snapped.

Mark tried to explain, flailing his hands. I was on a call with a client, drank some water, and then the butterflies appeared. I told her Mum, Poppy will be mad, and she said Dont worry, its a surprise. I couldnt tear the stickers off, shed be upset!

Upset?! Poppy hissed. She turned my kitchen into a countryfair! Ruffles! Sunflowers! Butterflies! Do you realise that glue can damage the softtouch finish?

Well clean it, love. Ill just

Its not just the glue! Did you see what she did to the railings?

I havent, but Im scared to look. Tell her to put everything back, now.

I cant. Shes his mother. If I say its terrible, her blood pressure will spike. Shes a bit touchy. Lets give it a week. Shell go home, well quietly fix it.

A week? I cant drink tea surrounded by golden swans and plastic butterflies! My eye twitches! Poppy whined.

Please, for me. Ill even buy you two spa vouchers. Just dont make a scene. Mums already stressed about her own home renovation, Mark pleaded.

Poppy saw the desperation in his eyes and the fear of a fight. Her anger softened into a dull, resigned irritation.

Fine. I wont cause a scene now. Ill take off the plastic cloth and put the curtains back tonight. Ill say Im allergic to synthetic fabrics.

They returned to the kitchen. Evelyn had already set the table. Beneath the sunflower cloth lay steaming bowls of stew, and in the centre a tower of fried potato cakes.

Well, dig in, you two! Evelyn commanded. Want some sour cream?

Poppy sat down, appetite nil, though the aroma was tempting. She lifted a spoon, avoiding a smiling caterpillar sticker perched right in front of her.

Evelyn, thanks for dinner, but about the décor I have a very specific taste. I prefer things empty, she began diplomatically.

Thats not taste, thats depression, dear, Evelyn retorted, biting into a cake. A young woman should live in beauty. Flowers, frills thats feminine energy. Your kitchen was like an operating theatre. Poor Mark cant feel cosy in that. Right, love?

Mark choked on his stew. Mum, why I liked it, it was stylish.

Stylish? Style is when the soul sings. And right now its singing. By the way, I tidied up the bathroom too.

A spoon clattered from Poppys hand, splashing stew onto the sunflower print.

Bathroom? she whispered.

Yes, all your shampoos were in identical bottles, I labelled them. I laid down fluffy pink mats for the feet and swapped the glass screen for a proper curtain with dolphins, Evelyn said, flipping a pancake.

Poppy rose slowly. Thanks, it was delicious, she muttered, staring at the wall. Im going to lie down. My head hurts.

She left the kitchen, hearing Evelyn whisper loudly to Mark, See? I warned you the girls overworked. Nothing makes her happy, not even beauty. She needs vitamins.

The bathroom was a worse sight than the kitchen. The sleek white marble was now a childrens playroom. A toxicpink shag rug covered the floor, and the fancy soap dispensers were scrawled with permanentmarker labels: FOR HAIR, FOR BODY, SOAP. The glass partition was hidden behind a cheap plastic curtain with blue dolphins, held by a flimsy rod that pierced the expensive tiles.

Poppy sat on the edge of the tub, covering her face. She wanted to cry, not from grief but from sheer helplessness. It felt less like bad taste and more like an invasion a brazen, unapologetic takeover under the guise of caring.

Ten minutes later Marks footsteps echoed as he peeked in.

How are you, love?

I want her gone, Poppy said softly. Not in a week. Tomorrow.

Where will she go? Shes got a repair, no water

Into a hotel. Ill pay for a decent room with breakfast. I cant live in this circus, Mark. Shes wrecked my things. Did you see the dispensers? Marked! You cant wash that off!

Well clean with spirit, dont panic, Mark tried to soothe.

Its not the spirit! Its that she doesnt respect me. She treats my house like her personal playground, like a cat marking territory! Poppy snapped.

A deafening crash erupted from the kitchen, followed by shattered glass and Evelyns scream.

Mark and Poppy exchanged a glance and bolted back.

The scene was cinematic. Evelyn stood in the middle of the kitchen, clutching her chest. On the floor, amidst a puddle of water and shards, lay the heavy oak shelf that had been over the worktop. The shelf had collapsed, taking with it three flower pots shed apparently decided to display.

I I only wanted to water the flowers, Evelyn stammered. I thought the shelf was sturdy I was just being decorative

Poppy stared at the exposed wall. The mounting brackets had ripped out, leaving yawning holes in the plaster.

The shelf was decorative, meant for a couple of picture frames, not three pots of geraniums, Poppy said calmly. It cant hold that weight.

Who would have known? Evelyn wailed. Everythings flimsy nowadays! Back in my day furniture was built to last! This is cardboard!

Poppy stepped over the broken bits, ran a finger along the torn edge of the plaster.

This is decorative plaster, worth as much as your pension for half a year, Evelyn. Fixing it invisibly is impossible. The whole wall will need a redo.

Evelyn fell silent, eyes wide.

You really think we need to redo the whole thing? Maybe a picture or a rug?

No, Poppy replied, turning to Mark. No pictures, no rugs. Mark, gather Mums things.

What? both men asked in unison.

Right, Ill call a taxi. Book her a room at the Central Hotel theyre lovely. Shell stay there until her own repairs finish. Ill pay for everything. She wont set foot in this flat again.

Youre kicking your own mother out? Evelyn gasped, clutching her chest. Because of a hole in the wall? Mark, are you hearing this?

Mark paled, his gaze flicking between the broken wall and his wifes determined face. Hed seen that look only a few times in five years of marriage and knew arguing was futile. If Poppy had decided, not even a bulldozer could move her.

Mum, Poppys right. This is too much. Youve ruined the kitchen.

I was trying to make it cosy! I was trying! You ungrateful lot! I wont be here any longer! Evelyn shrieked, grabbing a suitcase, tearing the sunflower cloth off the table, and stuffing magnets, ribbons and a handful of pastries into a bag.

Poppy stood in the doorway, watching Mark lug the suitcase out. She felt no shame, only relief for the wall, for her nerves, for Mark, who was caught between two fires. She knew swallowing this whole saga would only make things worse later. Tomorrow shed move the sofa, the day after shed toss the wrong books, and in a year shed raise future children on her own brand of right methods.

When the door closed behind them, a ringing silence settled over the flat.

Poppy sighed and returned to the kitchen, surveying the battlefield: debris on the floor, holes in the wall, glue residue where the butterflies had been, the lingering scent of fried pastries clinging to the plaster.

She fetched garbage bags, a step ladder, a solvent and a scraper.

First she peeled away the remaining stickers the highquality matte finish held up, and the glue came off easily. Then she stripped the tacky bathroom curtain and reinstalled her original glass screen, wiping away the marker with spirit. The pink shag rug was tossed without a second thought.

Two hours later, with Mark back, the flat looked almost like it had before. Only the fresh holes in the wall reminded anyone of the cozy invasion.

Mark slipped into the kitchen quietly, like a mouse. Poppy sat at the nowclean table, sipping tea.

I booked her a luxury suite, just as you said. Shes still on the phone, bragging to friends about being kicked out despite the twentydegree weather outside, Mark said, pouring himself a cup.

Let her brag, Poppy shrugged. At least shes not in here.

Poppy Im sorry. I was a fool. I shouldve stopped her straight away. I just grew up with Mum doing the same in my room. Posters ripped down, knitted napkins on my desk I thought that was normal caring, Mark confessed.

Poppy looked at him, warmth finally softening her eyes.

Its not caring, Mark. Its control. Im glad you finally see the difference. Ive already found a tradesperson to fix the wall tomorrow. From now on, visits only on holidays and only in neutral territory. No overnight stays.

Agreed. Absolutely, Mark nodded.

He opened a pantry cupboard, pulled out a bag of leftover pastry bits, and tossed them into the bin.

What? They were good, Poppy said, feigning surprise.

Delicious, but they smelled like oppression. Lets order a pizza. Want a slice?

Poppy laughed, the first genuine laugh of the night.

Sure, extra cheese. And lets fling the windows open we need to air out that cozy once and for all.

They sprawled on the livingroom floor, sharing a pizza from the box as a cool night breeze swept through, carrying away the scent of fried oil and cheap perfume. The kitchen still bore its fresh wounds, but Poppy knew they were fixable. Most importantly, she had defended her boundaries and finally found a true ally in her husband. That, after all, was worth more than any repaired plaster.