Spring Bank Holiday was when the city slowed down, and the countryside came alive. Emily was just finishing packing the last of the groceries into the boot of the car while James fiddled with the sat-nav, double-checking the route.

“Are you sure we haven’t forgotten anything?” he asked for the third time, casting one last glance at their flat.

Emily rolled her eyes.

“Everything’s packed. I checked twice—hair straightener, chargers, books, it’s all there.”

“What about Mum? Who’s going to feed Tigger?”

At the mention of her mother-in-law, Emily froze. The topic of Margaret always made her tense. The woman could be charming in public, but within the family, she turned into an endless critic. Advice, nitpicking, disapproving sighs—as if she were the one running their household.

“I’ve texted her all the details,” Emily replied curtly. “Food’s in the left cupboard, litter tray needs cleaning daily, and water the plants exactly on schedule.”

“Maybe you should call her anyway?” James suggested gently.

“Why? She’ll read it.”

But then it struck her—the security camera. They’d installed it after a spate of burglaries in their neighbourhood—a small, nearly invisible device perched on the bookshelf, hidden among trinkets.

“Actually,” she said, brightening, “I forgot to check if the camera’s on. Just give me a minute!”

She dashed back inside, found the device—green light blinking. The app on her phone showed a crisp image and clear audio.

“All good!” she announced, returning. “We can go!”

James didn’t question her sudden enthusiasm. In three years of marriage, he’d learned not to pry into some of his wife’s quirks.

Margaret let herself into their flat the next day. She’d had a spare key for years—”just in case,” as James always said—though Emily had made it clear she wasn’t thrilled about unannounced access.

“Here, Tigger! Granny’s here!” she chirped as she stepped inside.

The ginger cat slunk out from the bedroom, stretched, and trotted toward the kitchen, nudging his empty bowl pointedly.

“Patience, my love,” Margaret cooed, fetching the kibble.

She glanced around the flat and frowned. Unwashed mugs, cushions out of place, a newspaper sprawled on the floor.

“What kind of housekeeping is this…” she muttered, rolling up her sleeves.

Turning on the radio, she tidied up to the tunes of her youth. Half an hour later, the kitchen gleamed, cushions were plumped, and the newspaper neatly folded.

Settling on the sofa, she called her friend Joan.

“Hello, love? It’s me. I’m at James’s flat—they’ve gone to the cottage, left me to mind the cat and plants.”

She lowered her voice.

“Trust? I wouldn’t call it that. More like necessity. Emily left another instruction list! As if I don’t know how to care for a cat. I raised three children, yet she thinks I need a manual.”

Meanwhile, out on the cottage patio, Emily watched the scene unfold on her phone. Every word came through crystal clear.

“James! Come look at this!” she called to her husband, who was chopping firewood for dinner.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, wiping his hands.

“Just listen to what your mum’s saying about us!”

On screen, Margaret continued.

“Sometimes I feel like a ghost in their lives. James tries, but that Emily… she does everything her way. My advice might as well be whispers to the wind.”

She gestured at the curtains.

“See these? I told them to get thicker ones to stop the sun bleaching the wallpaper. But no—‘We want more light.’ And now look—one side’s already faded!”

James glanced between the phone and his wife, baffled.

“Emily, did you—are you secretly filming my mum?”

“Not your mum—our flat!” she whispered. “For security! And look how handy it is. Now we know what she really thinks.”

On screen, Margaret was still chatting.

“And her cooking! Joan, the other night I came for dinner—she served some quinoa salad with avocado. What even is that? Why not a proper roast for guests? James grew up on my shepherd’s pie, and now he’s eating grass!”

She walked to the bookshelf, picking up a framed photo of James.

“My boy’s changed since he married…” she sighed. “He used to visit every Sunday. Now I’m lucky if it’s once a month. It’s always ‘Emily this, Emily that’.”

She cut herself off, carefully replacing the frame.

“Ah well, Joan, I’m getting sentimental—must be the age. You remember how it was being a mother-in-law. Life moves on… I’ll call later. Let me check the kitchen.”

James set the phone down, scowling at his wife.

“This is too far, Em. Recording my mum without her knowing? It’s an invasion!”

“Me?” she shot back. “What about her going through our house, rearranging things, criticising everything? That’s fine, is it?”

“But recording someone without consent—”

“Oh, please! She’s in our home!” Emily snapped. “Just look at what she’s doing!”

She turned the feed back on. Margaret was in the kitchen, opening cupboards, sniffing a jar of spices.

“What even is this? No label, no price—must’ve cost a fortune. This is where their money goes…”

Then she pulled a parcel from her bag.

“At least they’ll eat properly. My James has lost weight.”

Emily scoffed.

“Hear that? Even our food’s not good enough. Now she’s brought her own!”

James rubbed his temples.

“She’s just trying to help—”

“She thinks I’m a terrible wife and a worse homemaker!” Emily’s voice wavered. “To her, I’ll never be good enough for her precious son.”

On screen, Margaret stepped into the bedroom, straightening the sheets.

“Oh God, she’s in our bedroom!” Emily gasped.

“She’s just making the bed,” James sighed.

“And now—she’s opening my wardrobe! James, she’s going through my things!”

Sure enough, Margaret ran a hand along the hangers, pausing on a blue dress—one she’d helped pick for their engagement.

“There you are,” she murmured, holding it to her chest. “James was so proud—‘Mum, this is her colour!’ And she’s never worn it once.”

She hung it front and centre before closing the wardrobe and dialling Joan again.

“You know what, Joan? Maybe I do expect too much. Their home’s clean, cosy—Emily tries. Not my way, but she tries… Maybe I should bite my tongue more.”

A pause.

“Though I’m still making them my pies. A mother’s heart knows best,” she added with a smile. “James looks too thin.”

Emily and James exchanged a glance. They hadn’t expected that.

“Maybe she’s not as oblivious as you thought,” James said softly.

“And maybe I’m no better,” Emily admitted. “Installing a camera, spying… Like I’m not an adult.”

He squeezed her shoulder.

“What now?”

She stared at the sunset, silent for a long moment.

“We talk. All three of us. Honestly. No instructions, no cameras.”

Two days passed where Emily barely touched the app. Every time her hand strayed to her phone, she saw Margaret’s face—her doubts, her loneliness, her quiet regrets.

But on the third evening, curiosity won.

“Just a quick check,” she told herself, opening the feed.

The living room was empty. Bubbling sounds came from the kitchen. Then Margaret walked in, pot in hand.

“There we go, Tigger,” she told the cat. “We’ll give them a proper welcome. They’ll come home tired, hungry—and bam! A hot meal. Think Emily will like that?”

Tigger meowed.

“Not for you,” she scratched his chin. “You’ve got your kibble. Joan and I were talking… Maybe I have been too hard on Emily.”

Emily’s throat tightened. She’d eavesdropped on something private.

Then Margaret’s phone rang.

“Hello, darling! Everything’s fine—Tigger’s fed, plants watered, just as Emily asked.”

A pause. Her face fell.

“The what? On the bookshelf? You mean… you’ve been filming me?”

Emily’s heart lurched.

Margaret turned slowly, eyes locking onto the camera lens as if sensing the intrusion. A flicker of hurt crossed her face before hardening.

“So Emily’s been… watching me?” she whispered. “She heard everything?”

James’s voice crackled through the phone, but Margaret wasn’t listening. She sank onto a chair, staring at the tiny device.

“I see. Thank you for telling me.” Her voice was quiet, wounded. “No, I’m not angryMargaret set the phone down gently, wiped her hands on her apron, and with one last unreadable glance at the camera, turned off the kitchen light and walked out, leaving behind the soup still simmering on the stove and the quiet realization that trust, once broken, takes more than words to mend.