Tidy, but not fanatical. I think that describes me: Tidy.  Everything (mostly) has its ordained and proper place.  My dress shirts all hang on wooden hangars in roughly color order.  My 50 years of black-binder journals line my shelves in date order.  My lap pillow sits in my recliner waiting to prop up my book when I sit to read.  My bed is made, my vases and bowls decorate my dresser, and the floors are absent of random items.  On occasion, I have noticed (or thought I noticed) certain items not in their usual places.  A decorative bowl has moved two inches to the left.  My bedroom blinds have been opened.  My lap pillow is on the floor.  (Yes, I am sure of it: things have definitely moved.)  Most concerning, a recent journal volume has not been fully replaced in its spot.  Sarah warned me once that Mom knew things she shouldn’t know and couldn’t unless she had been reading my journal.  Knowing that Mom is looking out my window or touching my decorations or sitting in my chair doesn’t trouble me greatly—they are not real violations, just strange wanderings.  But her reading my journals I cannot abide.  I resolved upon a strategy which would communicate without accusing, and placed a warning sign on the last journal binder moved: Please Do Not Read My Journals.  Things have moved around less since, and the journals not at all.