Youll always be stuck in a rental flat, my motherinlaw used to say. And now shes paying for a room in my manor.
Can we change the curtains? Harriets voice behind me was as thick and heavy as the velvet drapes on the windows the very thing she hated. This colour it feels oppressive. It makes the room gloomy.
I turned slowly. Id picked that fabric myself a deep, winecoloured velvet that matched the light walls and the antique sideboard perfectly. A tiny design win for me.
You dont like it?
Not at all, darling. As they say, dont look a gift horse in the mouth Im just giving my opinion. Do I not have the right to speak my mind in my own sons house?
I watched my motherinlaw, hands clasped delicately over her chest, scanning the room with a faint, disdainful glance.
My own bedroom the one David and I handed over to her in our new house. In our castle, as David joked while eyeing the towers Id dreamed of as a child.
Of course, you may, Margaret, I replied.
Good. I was beginning to think Id have to file a report just to breathe in here.
Twenty years had slipped by, and nothing really changed. Only the décor had.
Before we moved in, it was a cramped onebed flat with floral wallpaper; now its a spacious house, every square foot the result of Davids and my hard graft.
The massage chair really helps with my neuropathy, David murmured.
I just want a bit of cosiness, Harriet added, trailing her finger over the polished sideboard. Dust. It needs a wipe. But youre not used to that, are you? You and David have been living in other peoples corners for ages.
Inside me something tightened, not painful but familiar, like the phantom ache of a longamputated limb. I remembered.
I remembered the day we first moved into that tiny flat on the outskirts, a leaky tap and a squeaky floorboard, and how thrilled we were.
Then she arrived. She scanned our modest home, pursed her lips and delivered a verdict, looking not at David but straight at me.
Youre poor and youll always drag him down. Remember my words: youll never have anything of your own.
I kept quiet. What could I say? I was a twentyyearold, head over heels, convinced love would conquer all.
It did, but at the cost of twenty years of my life two decades of relentless work, sleepless nights, two engagement rings mortgaged to the bank, and one risky tech startup that finally took off and let us afford everything. Meanwhile, Margaret lost everything first her husband, then her flat in the city centre after she poured money into a scam a highsociety lady had recommended. The thirst for quick cash and status left her emptyhanded.
David says youve given me the finest guest room, Margaret said, moving to the window. With a garden view, so I can see you fussing with roses and not forget your place.
Our place is here now, I said firmly. And yours too.
My place, dear, was my flat, Margaret snapped. This is just a temporary shelter a generous gesture so everyone sees what a good wife my son has. No grudges.
She turned, and I saw the same cold, poisonous contempt shed shown twenty years ago.
The main thing is your castle doesnt become a house of cards, Ellie, she warned. Falling from that height would hurt a lot.
That evening, over dinner, Margaret brought up the curtains again, but only to David.
Dave, Ive been thinking youve got a proper status now, your own company. Clients will come over, and the house needs to reflect that. Those dark rooms they give a depressing impression.
I set a salad on the table, my hands steady. Id learned long ago not to let nerves shake me.
Mom, we like it, David said softly. Ellie chose everything herself; she has great taste.
Ellie has a practical eye, Margaret replied with a patronising smile. Shes used to keeping things tidy forever. Thats a good trait for lean times.
But now we can afford a bit of lightness. I know a brilliant decorator who could give us a few tips.
I felt the walls closing in. Refuse and Id be called stubborn, agree and Id be admitting my taste was worthless.
Ill think about it, I said evenly.
Thinking wont do, love. You need to act before the house gets too suburbanised.
The next morning I walked into the kitchen and froze. All my spice jars the ones Id collected from around the world and arranged just so were shoved into a corner. In their place sat Margarets china set, the only thing shed taken from her past life.
I just tidied up a bit, Margaret said from behind me. Your place was getting chaotic. A man likes a tidy home; it eases him.
I silently gathered my spices and put them back.
You didnt have to, I muttered.
Of course I did, she sighed. Youre always doing everything yourself. Strong women make men weak. Youve shouldered everything, and Dave got used to that. He needed to feel like the head of the house from the start.
It hit me like a punch. All those years Id spent coding late nights, supporting Dave after failures, hunting investors for our first project it all boiled down to one sentence. Apparently, Id been making him weak.
That evening I tried to talk to Dave. He listened, hugged me.
Ellie, love, shes an old lady whos lost everything. She just wants to feel useful, to help in the only way she knows. Does it really matter so much?
Its not about the jars, Dave! Its that she downplays everything I do, everything I am!
She just doesnt know you yet, he said gently. Give her time. Shell see what a wonderful partner I have.
I stepped back. He didnt get it. He loved me, stood by me, but he couldnt see the poison seeping from every word his mother uttered. He only saw her tragedy, not her nature.
That night I stared out of the bedroom window at the garden Id planted myself, designed every path. This house was my fortress, proof that Margaret was wrong.
But now the enemy was inside, and she wasnt going anywhere. Shed try to strip away my victory, turn my castle into her domain.
Compromise felt useless. Peace was a fantasy.
Saturday marked the point of no return. Id just returned from town when, before reaching the front door, I heard a familiar female voice from the terrace, bright with Margarets enthusiasm.
On the terrace, in her favourite chair, sat a wellkept lady, gesturing toward the garden.
and here, Harriet, I see a lovely Alpine mound. Those oldfashioned roses could go. They just take up space. Lets put in a lawn, give it room to breathe!
I paused in the shade of the ivycovered arch, unseen, catching every word.
Brilliant idea, Alice, replied the decorator, the garden needs a bit of city chic. Well redo everything. Dave will love it.
Something inside me snapped not with a crash, but a quiet, final click. This garden was my creation, each plant chosen, nurtured, celebrated. It wasnt just a pastime; it was my soul.
And they, without asking, were rewriting its fate, tearing it down.
Enough.
I didnt make a scene. I simply turned, got in the car, and drove away.
No anger, no spite, just cold, crystalclear calculation the same one thatd saved our business before. I rang my commercial property broker, Hey, Sarah, I need a rental flat, urgently. VIP client, details coming over.
Three hours later I was back. Dave was in the kitchen, midargument. I placed the keys and a folder of papers on the table.
Good evening, Margaret, Alice. Thanks for finding the time to discuss my garden design.
Alice blushed, and Margaret straightened.
Were just sharing ideas, love. For the common good.
Of course, I said, turning to Dave. Ive solved the problem.
He looked puzzled.
What problem?
Your mothers discomfort. Shes right she needs her own place where she can be the lady of the house, not have to live with someone elses taste.
I opened the folder.
Ive booked a flat for Margaret in a new development, concierge service, ten minutes away. Spacious, bright, topnotch finish. We can view it tomorrow at ten. Everythings already arranged.
Silence fell. Dave stared between his wife and his mother, speechless. Margarets face went pale.
So youre kicking me out? she whispered.
No, I smiled, and there was no hint of warmth. Im giving you what youve always wanted freedom. Freedom from my curtains, my spices, my roses. Youll be able to buy any furniture, hire any designer, create the cosy home youve dreamed of. Of course, on our tab.
It was a flawless move. I wasnt evicting her; I was gifting her an exit. Refusing that gift would mean admitting the fight was about control, not comfort.
Dave tried to joke, Ellie, youre a schemer. Why complicate things? But Margarets face hardened.
Youll let her do this to me? Throw me out of your house?
This is my house too, I said firmly. Im not throwing anyone out. Im offering better terms.
The rest of the evening Dave tried to smooth things over. When Alice rushed off, he slipped into the bedroom where I was packing Margarets things into boxes.
That was harsh. We couldve just talked.
I told her a dozen times, I replied, meeting his gaze. You heard only curtains and jars. To me it was my whole life being trampled daily, proving I was nothing.
I walked to the window, the garden darkening outside.
Twenty years, Dave. Twenty years of being told Im worthless. I stayed quiet, I worked, I built this house our house to prove I mattered. She comes in and wants to take it away. I wont let her. This house is our fortress, not a battlefield where I have to fight for every breath.
I wont fight your mother, he said. Ill just move her out of the line of fire.
He fell silent, and in that silence I saw he finally understood: my patience and love had limits, and those limits had just been reached.
The move happened in three days. Margaret never spoke to me again, only shot hostile glances. All the furniture was moved in silence. When it was done, she stood in the middle of her new, bright but empty flat.
I hope you like it here, I said, bidding farewell.
She gave no reply.
Two months later the house felt lighter. I sang while making breakfast. Dave and I laughed more, reminiscing about the little things. The manor stopped feeling like a fortress to defend and became just a home our home.
Every Sunday we visited Margaret. Shed redecorate her flat with light curtains, but it never felt cosy. It was almost hotellike, immaculate. Shed chat with Dave, barely noticing me.
One day I overheard her complaining to Dave about a broken tap.
called the council, they said wait three days. Can you imagine? If your dad were here, hed have sorted it in a heartbeat.
Thats when it all clicked. It wasnt about me, my poverty or my wealth. It was about losing power. Margaret was desperately trying to claw back control by managing even the smallest part of my life.
But I was no longer the girl from that rented onebed flat.
I took Daves hand, turned to Margaret and said, Well call a plumber, Margaret. No worries.
There was no triumph, no bitterness, just a quiet emptiness. The woman whod condemned me twenty years ago now lived in the room of my life, and the rent I paid for that room was my own peace of mind the best deal I ever made.
A year passed.
Golden autumn bathed the garden in warm light. I sat on the terrace, wrapped in a blanket, watching the roses. They were fading, but there was a beautiful maturity in their wilt.
Dave came in with two mugs and sat beside me.
Cold? he asked.
No, Im fine.
He slipped his arm around my shoulders. Our relationship had changed; the shadow of his mothers grievance had lifted. We were just us, a solid team.
Mom called, he said gently.
I stayed calm. Her calls no longer rattled me; they were routine.
Anything? I asked.
She asked if we could move the wardrobe. She says theres dust building up.
We exchanged a look. It was a new kind of request a tiny request meant to remind her of her weakness and pull us into her world.
Tell her well get removal guys, I said calmly. Well pay for it, we have a trusted firm.
Dave nodded, dialed the number. No arguments, no lets do it yourself, shell love it tricks. He got the new rules of the game and played along.
The next day I sifted through old photo albums and found a picture of us, just after moving into that first cramped flat, grinning in front of a peeling wall. We were deliriously happy.
I stared at those faces for a long time. Back then Id been terrified of Margarets words about eternal poverty and rented corners.
Now I realised: Margaret was right about one thing poverty is truly frightening. But it was her own poverty, a spiritual emptiness, not mine.
My own poverty had been temporary, a launchpad that pushed me forward, made me fight, build.
Margarets poverty lived in her soul an inability to celebrate others successes, a constant hunt for scapegoats, a need to belittle to feel powerful.
I closed the album. I no longer felt like a victor of some ancient war. There was no war, just the tragedy of a lonely woman who locked herself in a cage of envy and rage.
And my manor with its towers it wasnt a trophy or fortress. It was simply a home, smelling of the apples from my orchard.
A place where Dave and I could sit together in silence, hand in hand. A place where I finally found not wealth, but peace.
