The air in the room grew thick the moment my sister-in-law smirked and took my seat. “What can you even do besides complain?” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. Emily, my husband’s brother’s wife, had a way of cutting me down with just a look or a word. She made it clearshe belonged at the top, and I, somewhere beneath her.
I turned my gaze to the window, where fat, wet snowflakes fell slowly, trying to cover the grimy March puddles in the dreary backyard. Pointless. The dirt would always show through.
“I wasnt complaining,” I said quietly, still staring outside. “I just mentioned that Jamess bonus at work was delayed again.”
“Oh, of course,” Emily drawled, plucking the chocolate Id saved for my evening tea from the table. “Its always someone elses fault with you. The wrong husband, the cruel boss, the small paycheck. And what about you? Sitting here like a little grey mouse, day in, day out.”
My husband, William, shifted his fork between his hands, eyes fixed on his plate. His older brother, Edward, Emilys husband, snorted in agreement.
“Ems right,” he said. “You ought to lighten up, love. Take things as they come. Look at uswe push forward, and things work out.”
“Things working out” meant their third car, the flat in central London they rented out, and their annual trips to Spain. They loved flaunting their success, especially to me. I was their living example of how not to live.
“Im not a grey mouse,” I blurted, and the words left me breathless with their boldness.
Emilys eyebrows shot up, then she laugheda high, artificial sound.
“Oh? Then who are you, then? Just a wife? Just a mother? Thirty years of cooking, cleaning, raising kids, and now retired. And whats left? Who are you without them? Nobody. And you cant do a thing.”
William finally lifted his head.
“Em, enough,” he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. “Sarahs doing fine.”
“Fine?” Emily echoed, widening her eyes. “At what, pray tell? Her roasts? They are decent, Ill give her that. But you cant live on a good roast alone, can you?”
I stood, my hands trembling slightly as I gathered the empty plates and carried them to the sink. Behind me, their stifled laughter hummed. They thought I couldnt hear.
“You cant do a thing.”
The words rang in my ears, mingling with the sound of water gushing from the tap. I stared at my handshands that had washed, cooked, ironed, rocked babies, comforted a husband, cared for family. Hands that suddenly felt useless and foreign.
That evening, after theyd left, the house was quiet, the air still heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and lingering humiliation. William flopped onto the sofa, eyes glued to the telly.
“Dont mind her,” he said absently. “You know how she is. Stressed, takes it out on others.”
“Shes right,” I said, surprising even myself.
William turned.
“Right about what?”
“I cant do anything. Except complain.”
“Oh, here we go,” he sighed, turning up the volume.
But I wasnt listening. I stood in the kitchen, staring at my reflection in the dark windowa pale, tired woman with hollow eyes. “Who are you without them? Nobody.”
The next morning, I woke William early.
“I need money,” I said firmly.
He groaned, reaching for his wallet on the nightstand.
“How much? For groceries?”
“No. For a course.”
He set the wallet down and sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“A course? What kind?”
“Dressmaking.”
He stared at me as if Id spoken in Mandarin.
“Sewing? You? Love, you cant even sew a button right. Remember that time before my fishing trip”
“Ill learn,” I cut in. “I need the beginners course. And then a sewing machine. Nothing too fancy.”
He laughed, but it died quickly when he saw my face.
“Youre serious? Because of last night? Ems just”
“I need the money, William,” I repeated. “Im not asking. Im telling you.”
He gave in. An hour later, grumbling, he counted out the cash. The notes felt alien in my palm, heavy with possibility.
The course was held in an old building, a former community centre in town. The air smelled of dust, fabric, and aged wood. The class was full of women like meover fifty, nervous, exchanging hesitant smiles as if apologising for daring to want something new.
The instructor, Mrs. Whitmore, was stern, her silver hair pulled into a tight bun, a thimble on her finger. She didnt smile or make allowances.
“A sewing machine isnt a toy,” she said, eyes sweeping over us. “Its your tool. Respect it, and itll respect you.”
The first days were hell. I was terrified of the machine. Threads tangled, needles snapped, fabric bunched into ugly folds. I came home red-eyed, fingers pricked and sore.
“Had enough, master tailor?” William teased, watching me struggle. “Just chuck it and save yourself the hassle.”
I didnt answer. I sat with the scraps from class, practising my stitches late into the night, the hum of the machine my only company.
One day, rummaging through an old chest at the cottage, I found my grandmothers fabricssoft wool the colour of ripe cherries, floral cotton, yellowed patterns sketched on tracing paper. I pressed a piece to my face, inhaling memories of warmth and home. Gran had been a brilliant seamstress. Shed clothed our whole family. I remembered sitting at her feet, watching her hands turn cloth into magic.
I brought the cherry wool to class.
Mrs. Whitmore touched it, her stern expression softening.
“Good fabric holds history,” she said. “This will make a fine coat. Classic. Timeless.”
The idea seemed absurd. But she guided me through the pattern, and I cut the precious fabric with held breath. My hands moved with a confidence my mind didnt understand.
A month later, the coat was finished. I slipped it on and walked into the kitchen. William looked up from his tea and froze.
“Whats this?”
“A coat,” I said. “I made it.”
He circled me, touching the sleeve.
“You sewed this? Properly? Its nice. Looks shop-bought.”
For the first time in years, he wasnt looking at me like part of the furniture.
“Thanks,” I said, smiling.
The following week was Emilys birthday. Shed invited us, and William insisted we go.
“Cant skip it. Show off your coat.”
We arrived late. The room was packed, Emily holding court in a glittering dress.
“Oh, the poor relations have arrived!” she trilled. “Come in, come in, theres plenty!”
I hung up my coat, wearing a simple blue dress beneath. Emily gave me a once-over.
“Still in that old thing? Honestly, Ive offered you my cast-offstheyre designer, you know.”
“Im comfortable in this,” I said politely.
Dinner was the usual parade of Emilys achievementstheir new holiday plans, their latest luxuries. I stayed quiet until a voice rang from the hall.
“Whose gorgeous coat is this? The craftsmanship!”
A plump woman in a bright dress appeared, holding my cherry-red coat.
“Emily, darling, is this yours? Its exquisite! Where did you find it?”
Emily blinked.
“Oh, that? Just a little something from my tailor. Exclusive, of course.”
I stood.
“Actually,” I said softly, “its mine. I made it.”
Silence.
The woman gaped. “You?”
Emilys face twitched. “You?”
I took the coat and slipped it on. It fit perfectly, drawing admiring glances. Emily flushed.
“Well, fancy that,” she muttered. “Mustve cost a fortune in time and fabric. Hardly worth it.”
“Oh, but it is,” the woman said, admiring the seams. “This is art. Do you take commissions?”
“Not yet,” I admitted. “Im still learning.”
“A shame. Id order in a heartbeat.”
Emily stalked off, but the damage was done. For the first time, I was the one they fawned over.
That night, William chuckled in the car.
“You shut her right up. She was green!”
I didnt feel like a queen. I just felt like myself.
The next day, the plump womanMargaretcalled. She owned a boutique in town.
“I cant stop thinking about your coat,” she said. “You should sell your work. Youve got a gift.”
Six months later, my life had changed. My sewing machines hum was no longer
