My shock turned to anger quickly, and my blood pressure rose.
“Mrs. Winslow, what are you doing here? You can’t just let yourself into our home!”
She waved her hand dismissively, smiling as if nothing was wrong.
“Nonsense, dear,” she said. “I’m just helping you out. I know that you work long hours. Your kids shouldn’t have to pay the price for that.”
“That’s not the point!” I shouted, my grip tightening on the bat. “You promised this would never happen again. You’re trespassing!”
Her expression turned.
“I was only trying to help you, Lauren. You young people are always so busy. I thought you’d appreciate a little order.”
“Get out, Mrs. Winslow. Now. I’m calling the police.”
To her credit, she seemed genuinely surprised by my reaction, but she left without further protest. I locked the door behind her and sank to the floor, trying to steady my breathing.
“Hank, she’s gone. It was Mrs. Winslow. She was here, going through our things,” I said.
“Goodness, Lauren. I heard it all,” Hank said. “And Summer has already called the police. They should be on their way to you now.”
“Hurry home,” I said, hanging up the call.
The police arrived shortly after and took my statement.
“Oh, we’ve had issues with your landlady before,” an officer said. “She has this habit of going in and out and ‘helping’ tenants whether they want it or not.”
“But that’s not ok, officer,” I said. “I had no idea who was in my house, handling my personal belongings. I even took a baseball bat because I was sure that someone was in the house.”
“We know, ma’am,” the officer said. “You can press charges if you want. Check your lease, but I’m certain that there will be a clause indicating that this isn’t allowed.”
I nodded.
“And you can change the locks if you want, but please remember, you’ll have to disclose that to her, too. Because legally, that should be part of the contract, too.”
I decided not to press charges, but I did ask the officer to give Mrs. Winslow a warning.
“Make her know that this is unacceptable, and if it happens again, I will press charges.”
When Hank and the kids returned, we discussed what happened. And they were all as equally shaken as I was and agreed that we needed to take measures and ensure our safety.
“We’re changing the locks tomorrow,” Hank said. “I don’t care what anyone says.”
The next morning, I watched as the locksmith worked while Hank and I had coffee. We had both barely slept the night before, feeling unsafe because Mrs. Winslow had keys to the house.
But now that the locks were changing, we were both settled. We had trusted her, and she had violated that trust in a way that was both invasive and deeply unsettling.
The incident with Mrs. Winslow served as a stark reminder that personal boundaries are sacred and that they should be trusted.
Life slowly returned to normal, but I don’t think that I could forget about this. And I think I’ll always be uneasy every time I see an upside-down mug.
What would you have done?
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