I forbade my sister-in-law from taking my things without asking, and I put a lock on the wardrobe.
Why is there a foundation stain on my new blouse, the one I havent even had the chance to remove the tag from? Harriets voice trembled, barely hiding her fury, though she tried to sound calm.
Sitting in the kitchen, Rachel, her sister-in-law, barely looked up from her magazine. She languidly swung her foot in a fluffy slipper and radiated an air of breezy detachment, as though none of this was remotely about her.
Oh, Hattie, must you start with all this the moment you get in? Rachel drawled at last, glancing lazily at her. I only tried it on, just to see if the colour suited me. Ive got a date tonight and hoped you might lend it to me. As for the foundation well, slipped up, didnt I? Youll wash it, no harm done. Your washing machine is a marvel of British engineering, isnt it?
Harriet stood in the doorway, fingers digging into the sky-blue silk. The blouse had cost half her monthly advance. Shed scrimped and saved for it, planning to wear it to her project pitch the following Tuesday. Now, a garish orange blotch blossomed on the collar, and the idea of removing it from such delicate fabric was enough to put her in a spin.
Rachel, I didnt give you permission to take my things, she enunciated, every word crisp and deliberate. Nor did I ever say you could go into my wardrobe. Youre only staying here while the builders sort out your flat, but that doesnt mean my possessions suddenly become community property.
Oh, come off it, Rachel scoffed, crunching a biscuit. Were family! My brother Toms your husband, so were as good as sisters, arent we? Whats wrong with lending a top to your own sister? Its not as if I nicked it, I simply borrowed it. Yeah, I got a bit of makeup on it. Happens to the best of us. You earn good money, buy yourself a new one if the stain doesnt come out, wont hurt you. Im watching every penny, what with the renovation.
At that moment, Tom strolled into the kitchen, fresh in from work, looking all too ready for peace and supper, not a domestic blow-up.
Whats happening now? he asked, eyes flicking from his scarlet-faced wife to his serene sister.
Your wifes kicking off over a bit of fabric, Rachel pouted, pulling her best put-upon face. I merely tried it on and shes acting like I made off with the family silverware. Tom, say something. You cant be so stingy with blood relations. Families help each other out.
Wordlessly, Harriet held out the spoilt blouse. Tom examined the stain, sighed deeply, massaged the bridge of his nose.
Rach, honestly You shouldve asked. Harriets been saving this one.
Well, Id have asked! Rachel waved her hands in exasperation. But shes never home! I had to get ready! I cant go naked, can I? My stuffs all boxed up, you know that.
Youve got three suitcases of clothes in the corridor, Harriet retorted. And Ive told you before not to touch my things. Last week you took my perfume the niche one emptied half the bottle over yourself. Before that, you accidentally wore my new boots to the corner shop and managed to scratch them.
Oh, thats enough, Rachel slammed her mug down. Living here is like stepping on eggshells. Breathe wrong and Ill get court-martialled. Perfumes for wearing, isnt it? Ill wash your blouse, stop whingeing.
Dont bother, Harriet said wearily, knowing the conversation was stuck in a loop. Youll ruin the fabric completely. Just stop. Touching. My. Things.
She turned and left, tossing the blouse into the dry cleaning basket. Her insides seethed. Rachel had been foisted on them for two whole months while her own place stood in perpetual chaos workmen disappearing or reappearing, her kindly brother unable to say no. At first Rachel had been polite, but gradually all boundaries had blurred.
That evening, Harriet lay awake, listening. She could hear Rachels cheerful chatter from the kitchen as she grumbled to Tom about Harriets cold fish attitude. Tom, ever the peacemaker, mumbled something by way of apology. He was a good soul, soft-hearted, but incapable of putting his little sister in her place to him shed always be the child hed spoiled and protected, never mind that she was twenty-seven and behaved more like a conqueror than a guest.
Next morning, Harriet woke deliberately early. She hid her jewellery box deep in the linen cupboard, banking on Rachel not venturing in there. Her high-end makeup went into her work bag. It was mortifying, sneaking around in ones own home, but what else was she to do?
The next week passed in an uneasy truce. Rachel sulked, pointedly ignoring Harriet, who was fine with the arrangement. However, on Friday Harriet got home to something new.
The bathroom door was locked; water ran within, and the smell of her favourite bubble bath wafted out the luxury set her colleagues had given her, one shed been saving. She knocked.
Occupied! Rachel called.
Rachel, did you use my bubble bath? Harriet enquired, voice sharp through the wood.
Which one oh, that? I just poured a bit in, and it bubbled up like mad! Stop being so penny-pinching, Hattie. There was a whole bottle, wasnt there?
Harriet pressed her forehead against the cool doorframe. It wasnt about the cost of bath foam or the blouse. It was this suffocating disrespect. Rachel behaved as though everything in reach was rightfully hers, and Harriet just an obstacle.
When Rachel emerged, flushed and self-satisfied in Harriets own bathrobe (Left mine in the bedroom and its so cold!), Harriet breezed by her and found the precious bubble bath bottle empty in the bin. Rachels just a splash meant, in reality, the entire 200ml had gone.
Tom, we need to talk, Harriet said when they went to bed.
I know what youre going to say, Tom sighed, clutching his pillow. Shes hopeless, but the workmen said two more weeks. Shell be gone soon. I cant toss my own sister out, can I? Mum would have my guts for garters.
Im not asking you to throw her out. Just set some ground rules. She keeps taking my things. Shes trespassing where she shouldnt.
Ill talk to her. Tomorrow. Promise, Tom muttered, and was snoring in seconds.
Harriet knew nothing would come of it. Rachel would nod, look solemn, then be rifling through Harriets wardrobe the very next day. Honest to goodness, there was nothing more brazen.
The breaking point came on Saturday. Harriet and Tom were invited to a friends birthday dinner. Harriet planned to wear her favourite cocktail dress midnight blue velvet, fitted like a dream. It had hung safely in the wardrobe, zipped in its cover.
When she opened it, the cover was empty.
An icy chill ran down her back. Frantic, Harriet raked through hangers, checked drawers, even the laundry basket. No dress.
Rachel was gone for the day she’d mentioned meeting friends at lunch.
Harriet dialled. It rang and rang, over the thump of club music and laughter.
Hello! Rachel shouted. Hattie, what now? Im busy!
Wheres my blue velvet dress? Harriets voice climbed.
What, that? The thing is, I had nothing to wear to Vickys birthday at the club, and your dress fit me like a glove! Ive been careful, promise! Ill bring it back tomorrow, you wont notice a thing!
You took my dress without asking and wore it to a nightclub?! Harriets vision narrowed. Come home now and bring it back! Tom and I have to leave in two hours!
Oh, for goodness sake, wear something else! Youve got wardrobes fit to burst. Im not leaving, the funs just starting! Signals dodgy, gotta go!
Rachel hung up.
Harriet sat on the bed and wept from anger, helplessness, and the sheer gall. Tom appeared, alarmed.
Whats happened? Someone died?
No, Tom. Only my patience. Your sister stole my dress and waltzed out in it.
Tom tried calling his sister, but she didnt answer. At the party, Harriet wore an old suit, in a mood fit to curdle milk. She fidgeted all evening, envisioning spilled cocktails, burnt velvet, club smoke soaking into her dress.
Rachel breezed in next morning, carrying the dress crumpled like a dish rag.
There you go, she tossed it aside, heading to the kitchen. Dont make a fuss. Mind you, the hems a bit ripped some idiot stepped on it. Youll fix it, youre handy.
Harriet unrolled the dress. The hem had been torn halfway up, velvet sticky and reeking of cheap prosecco and cigarettes. It was utterly ruined.
Tom, Harriet called.
Tom crossed from the living room, looked at the dress, then at his sister.
Rach, thats too much. You owe us for this.
How much? Rachel rolled her eyes. What, a couple hundred quid? Ill pay you after payday. Turning your own sister into a debtor, honestly.
It was four hundred pounds, Harriet murmured. But its not about the money.
On Monday, Harriet took a day off. As soon as Tom and Rachel left (Rachel had found a temp admin job and left around ten), Harriet called a locksmith.
Id like a lock fitted, please, she told the man in overalls. On the bedroom door. Something reliable.
The elderly gent with a walrus moustache grinned knowingly.
Keeping out the children or the mother-in-law, is it?
Sister-in-law, Harriet replied.
Oh, the classic. Sorted in a jiffy.
Within the hour, a sturdy, dignified lock gleamed on the bedroom door. Harriet ferried all her belongings in: coats, shoes, handbags, even her shampoo and hairdryer. The bedroom became a bit of a bunker, but at least her things were safe.
She locked the door, tested it, and put the key in her jeans. A spare she hid in the car, inside the glove compartment. Tom wouldnt get a key yet not until Harriet was quite certain he couldnt be cajoled out of it.
Rachel was first home. Harriet sat enjoying her book and the silence. She heard Rachel come in, shoes thudding to the floor, footsteps heading for the bathroom, then making for Tom and Harriets bedroom. Presumably another hair product raid.
The handle rattled. Once. Harder again.
Hattie! Rachel called from the corridor. Your doors jammed! Wont open!
Not jammed, Harriet called back, unmoved. Locked.
Rachel burst into the kitchen, thunderstruck.
What do you mean, locked? Why? I need the hairdryer!
The hairdryer now lives under lock and key. Like the rest of my belongings.
You didnt you havent had a lock fitted? Seriously? Because of me?
Because of you, Rachel. Since you cant understand no and dont touch, I had to make things very simple.
Youre mad! Absolutely barking! Who locks their own bedroom? What if I need something? What if theres a fire?
If its a fire, ring 999. If you need something, buy your own.
Im calling Tom! Hell have a word! Its his room too!
Do as you see fit, Harriet said serenely.
Tom arrived half an hour later, met by Rachels crocodile tears and cries of victimisation.
Tom! She thinks Im a thief! Shes locked me out! Soon Ill need a ticket to get into the loo! How do you stand her? Shes deranged!
Tom surveyed the door, then his calm wife.
Hattie, did you really put a lock on?
Yes, Tom. Im sick of my things being ruined and hiding my belongings. This is my room, my private space. I have a right to defend it. Ill keep the key. When were both home, the door stays open. When were out, locked.
It’s well, its not very family, is it? Tom mumbled.
But helping yourself to someone elses dress and trashing it at a nightclub is? Or emptying fifty quids worth of perfume? Tom, its the lock or I pack my things and leave. I cant live like this with a thieving housemate.
The word thieving hit Rachel where it hurt.
Right! she screeched. Choke on your precious rags! Im out! Mum will hear about this! How youve bullied me!
She dashed to the hall, grabbed her belongings.
Rach, its the middle of the night! Tom tried.
Ill stay at Vickys! Better the floor than under this witchs roof! And you, Tom, youre utterly hen-pecked! Disgraceful!
The door slammed so hard plaster sprinkled from the ceiling. A welcome, even sacred quiet settled over the flat.
Tom slumped onto a chair and buried his face in his hands.
Mumll never let us hear the end of this.
Well survive, Harriet put her hand on his shoulder. At least now theres order. And our things are where we left them. Rachel needed to learn the world doesnt revolve around her.
Next day, Toms phone rang off the hook with his mother. Harriet caught snatches: How could you?, You threw her out on the street!, Rachel says you starved her! Tom struggled to explain about the dress, the ruined things, but his mum only heard her poor, hard-done-by youngest.
Harriet stayed out of it. She knew she was in the right. According to the law, an owner may secure their own possessions as they please. She was defending her own and her nerves.
Rachel never returned for her effects, sending a friend with a car two days later. Harriet handed over every bag, but not before making sure Rachel hadnt sneaked anything extra. The new lock had done its job.
A month passed. Rachels renovations finished or perhaps she found somewhere else. Relations with the mother-in-law were chilly, limited to the odd festive card. But peace reigned at last.
One evening, getting ready for the theatre, Harriet opened the wardrobe and took out the blue velvet dress. Shed had it expertly repaired, a neat embroidery masking the tear, the stain gone. It was almost like new.
She twirled in front of the mirror. The bedrooms lock glimmered in the lamps soft light. Tom, knotting his tie, caught her eye in the reflection.
You know, he murmured. You were right. This lock it makes me feel calmer, too. Nobodys rummaging, nobodys using my razors anymore.
Harriet smiled.
Boundaries, Tom. Theyre the bedrock of any healthy relationship. Especially with family.
She took up her handbag, locked the bedroom door, pocketed the key, and off they went. The night promised wonders. And no brazen relation could spoil it.
If you liked this story and believe personal belongings should remain personal, do leave a like and subscribe. And in the comments, tell us have you ever had to defend your own things from family?
