What can you actually do besides complain? smirked my sister-in-law, plonking herself in my seat. The air in the room thickened instantly, as if a storm were brewing. Laura, my brother-in-laws wife, had a knack for putting me in my place with just a look or a word. And her place, as she never tired of reminding me, was somewhere up high, while mine was decidedly down low.
I glanced out the window where fat, wet snowflakes drifted down, tryingand failingto disguise the grubby March puddles in the dreary courtyard.
I wasnt complaining, I said quietly, still staring outside. I just mentioned that Johns bonus at work was delayed again.
Of course you werent, Laura drawled, snatching the chocolate biscuit Id been saving for my evening cuppa. Its always someone elses fault with you. The wrong husband, the mean boss, the tiny salary. And what about you? Sitting here like a little grey mouse in your four walls.
My husband, James, shifted his fork from one hand to the other, staring at his plate. His older brother, RichardLauras husbandnodded approvingly.
Lauras right, love. Youve got to roll with the punches. Take uswe bend the rules a bit, and look at us. Everything works out.
Everything worked out for themtheir third car, a flat in central London they rented out, and annual trips to Spain. They adored flaunting their success, especially at me. I was their cautionary tale, the living example of how *not* to live.
Im not a little grey mouse, I blurted out, surprising even myself.
Lauras eyebrows shot up, then she laughedbright and insincere. Oh? Then who *are* you, then? Just a mum? Just a wife? Thirty years of keeping house, feeding your husband, raising kids, and now retired. And whats left? Who are you without them? Nobody. And you cant do a thing.
James finally lifted his head. Alright, Laura, ease up, he muttered weakly. Emilys doing fine.
*Fine?* Lauras eyes widened theatrically. At what, pray tell? Her roast dinners? Lovely, Ill give her that. But you cant live on roast dinners alone, can you?
I stood up, hands trembling slightly, and gathered the empty plates. Behind me, their hushed laughter followed. They thought I couldnt hear.
*You cant do a thing.*
The words rang in my ears, mingling with the sound of tap water gushing into the sink. I stared at my handshands that had spent thirty years washing, cooking, ironing, rocking babies, soothing my husband, tending to family. Hands that suddenly felt useless and foreign.
That evening, after the guests had leftleaving behind a whiff of expensive perfume and a faint sting of humiliationthe house fell quiet. James, as usual, sprawled on the sofa in front of the telly.
Dont take her seriously, he said, eyes glued to the screen. Shes always like that. Wound up, takes it out on everyone.
Shes right, I said, surprising myself again.
James turned his head. Right about what?
I cant do anything. Except complain.
Oh, here we go, he sighed, reaching for the remote.
But I wasnt listening. I stood in the kitchen, staring at my reflection in the dark windowa tired, pale woman with empty eyes. *Who are you without them? Nobody.*
The next morning, I woke James earlier than usual.
I need money, I said firmly.
He groaned, fumbling for his wallet on the nightstand. How much? For groceries?
No. For a course.
He dropped the wallet and sat up, rubbing his eyes. What course?
Dressmaking.
He gaped at me as if Id announced I was taking up lion taming. *Sewing?* You? Love, you cant even sew a button on straight. Remember that time before my fishing trip
Ill learn, I cut in. Just a beginners course. Then Ill need a sewing machine. Nothing fancy.
James burst out laughinguntil he saw my face.
Youre serious? Because of yesterday? Look, Laura just
I need the money, James, I repeated. Im not asking. Im telling you.
He gave in. An hour later, grumbling, he handed over the cash. The notes felt foreign and strangely heavy in my palm.
The course was held in an old community centre, dusty with the scent of fabric and aged wood. The class was full of women like meover fifty, tentative, exchanging apologetic smiles as if ashamed of wanting something new.
Our instructor, Mrs. Whitaker, was a stern woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun and a thimble permanently fixed on her finger. She didnt smile or make allowances for age.
A sewing machine isnt a toy, she declared, scanning us with a hawk-like gaze. Its your weapon. Respect it, and itll respect you.
The first days were torture. I was terrified of the machine. Threads tangled, needles snapped, fabric bunched into hideous lumps. I came home red-eyed, fingers pricked raw.
Hows the master seamstress? James teased, watching me struggle. Had enough yet? Cut your losses, love.
I ignored him. I sat at the table, practicing stitches on scraps until the hum of the machine and my own frustrated sighs filled the flat late into the night.
One day, rummaging through the attic, I found my grandmothers old trunk. Inside were faded fashion magazines, handwritten patterns on tracing paper, and a few lengths of fabricfloral cotton and deep cherry wool. I pressed the cherry wool to my face. It smelled of the past, of home, of warmth. My grandmother had been a brilliant seamstress. Shed clothed our whole family. I remembered sitting at her feet, watching her hands turn ordinary cloth into magic.
I brought the fabric to class.
Mrs. Whitaker touched the cherry wool. Whats this?
My grandmothers. Very old.
She peered at me over her glasses. Treasure it. Ancestors live in such things. Thisll make a fine coat. Timeless.
The idea of making a coat seemed ludicrous. But Mrs. Whitaker insisted. We drafted the pattern. I spent hours bent over the table, tracing chalk lines, thenheart in my throatcut into the precious fabric. One wrong move, and it was ruined.
But I didnt slip. My hands remembered what my mind had forgotten. They moved with certainty.
A month later, the coat was finished. I wore it out of my room. James was at the kitchen table, mid-sip of tea. He froze.
Whats *that*?
A coat, I said. I made it.
He circled me, touching the sleeve. You *made* this? Seriously? Its actually nice. Looks shop-bought.
For the first time in years, he looked at me like I was interesting.
Thanks, I said, smiling.
The following week was Lauras birthday party. Shed thrown her usual lavish do. I didnt want to go, but James insisted.
She invited us. Be rude not to. And you can show off that coat.
We arrived late. The room was packed. Laura, shimmering in sequins, held court. She waved us over with a theatrical sigh.
Oh, the poor relations have graced us! Come on, the buffets groaning, and youre being shy.
I hung up my coat and stepped out in a simple blue dress. Laura gave me a once-over.
Still wearing *that*, darling? Honestly, Ive offered you my cast-offsmuch nicer, really.
Im happy with mine, I said politely.
Conversation revolved, as always, around Laura and Richards triumphstheir upcoming trip to Italy (*Not* Spain this year, darlingtreat ourselves!), their latest investments. I stayed quiet.
Then, from the hallway, someone gasped.
Whose *gorgeous* coat is this? The craftsmanship!
Laura stiffened. What now?
A plump woman in a bright dress swept in, holding my cherry wool coat. Laura, *darling*, is this yours? Its *stunning*! Wherever did you find it? This is bespokeI know quality!
All eyes turned to the coat. Laura forced a smile.
Oh, *that*? Just a little something from my tailor in Mayfair. Exclusive.
I stood. Actually, I said softly, its mine.
Silence.
*Yours?* The woman blinked.
Yes, I said. I made it.
Laura gaped. *You?*
The room erupted. Guests
