Youll always be the poor one living in a rented flat, Eleanor Whitcombe intoned, her voice a heavy velvet that clung to the walls like a curtain she never liked. Now Im renting a room in my own manor.
Can we change the drapes? Emily Harts voice, as thick as the plush velvet that adorned the windows, trembled. This colour it presses down, makes the room feel gloomy.
Emily turned slowly. She had chosen the fabric herselfa dense, winecoloured velvet that matched the pale walls and the antique sideboard. It was her tiny triumph as a designer.
You dont like it? Eleanor asked, her tone dripping with the old proverb about a gifted horse.
Of course not, dear. As they say, a gift is no thanks Im merely voicing my opinion. I have a right to my own thoughts in my sons house, dont I?
Emily stared at her motherinlaw, hands folded delicately over her chest, a faint disdain flickering as she scanned the roomher room, the one she and David had given her in their new house, their castle, as David joked while looking at the towers Emily had dreamed of since childhood.
Certainly, Mrs Whitcombe, David said.
Good, otherwise I thought Id have to file a report just to breathe here.
Twenty years had slipped by, and nothing had really changed. Only the décor had been swapped. Once a cramped studio with floral wallpaper, now a spacious house, every square foot a product of the hard labour Emily and David had poured into it.
I just want a bit of coziness, Emily whispered, trailing a finger over the polished surface of the sideboard. Dust. It needs clearing. But you mustnt get used to it. You and David have spent years lurking in other peoples corners.
A familiar pressure tightened inside her, not painful but phantom, like a lingering ache in a longamputated limb. She remembered the day they first moved into their modest flat on the outskirtsa leaky tap, creaking floorboards, a trembling happiness.
Then Eleanor appeared, eyeing their humble abode, pursing her lips, and delivering a verdict not at David but at Emily.
Youre poor and youll always pull him down. Remember my words: youll have nothing of your own, ever.
Emily held her tongue. What could she say? A twentyyearold, in love, convinced love would conquer all.
It did, but it cost her two decades of sleepless nights, relentless work, two pledged rings held as collateral at the bank, and a risky startup that finally took off, allowing them to afford everything. Meanwhile, Eleanor had lost everythingfirst her husband, then her citycentre flatafter investing in a scheme recommended by a very respectable lady seeking quick cash and status.
The garden view you gave me, dear, Eleanor said, stepping to the window, must be to remind me of your roses and your place.
Our place is right here now, Emily replied firmly. And yours as well.
My place, dear, was my flat, Eleanor snapped. This is just a temporary shelter, a generous gesture so everyone sees what a good wife my son has. Not a memory of resentment.
Emily saw in Eleanors eyes the same cold, poisonous disdain shed felt twenty years ago.
The most important thing is that your castle doesnt turn into a house of cards, Emily. Falling from such heights hurts, Eleanor warned.
At dinner, Eleanor returned to the curtains, addressing David with a silksmooth courtesy.
David, you now have your own status, your own company. Clients will come. The dark rooms give a oppressive impression.
Emily placed a salad on the table, hands steady. She had learned not to tremble.
Mother, we like it, David said softly. Emily chose everything; she has a wonderful taste.
Emilys taste is practical, Eleanor replied, bestowing a patronising smile. Shes used to things being immaculate forevera useful trait in lean times. But now we can afford a little lightness. I know a brilliant interior designer who could offer a few tips.
Emily felt the walls closing in. To refuse was to be stubborn and unkind; to agree was to deem her own taste worthless.
Ill think about it, she said evenly.
Thinking wont do here, dear. You must act before the house is soaked in this bourgeois foundation.
The next morning, Emily entered the kitchen and froze. All her spice jarscollected over years from every corner of the world and arranged just sohad been shoved into a corner, replaced by Eleanors porcelain set, the sole relic shed brought from her past life.
I merely tidied up, Eleanor said, appearing behind her. Your place was chaotic. A man needs order to feel calm.
Emily silently gathered her spices and began to restore them.
You neednt have done it; I could have, Eleanor sighed. Youre always doing everything yourself. Strong women make men weak. David has grown used to you bearing everything, but he needed to feel like the head from the start.
The words struck Emily like a blow to the wind. All those years coding late nights beside David, supporting him after failures, hunting investors for their first ventureall reduced to a single sentence: she had made him weak.
That evening she tried to speak with David. He listened, hugged her.
Emily, shes an elderly woman whos lost everything. She just wants to feel needed. Shes helping as best she can. Are those jars really that important?
Its not about the jars, David! Its that she dismisses everything I am, everything I do! Emily snapped. She doesnt even know me.
She just doesnt know you yet, David replied gently. Give her time. Shell see what a wonderful partner you are.
Emily stepped back, feeling unseen. The poison of Eleanors words seeped into every corner, while David saw only the surface.
That night Emily stared out of the bedroom window at the garden she had planted herself, designed every path, tended every rose. The house was her fortress, proof that Eleanor was wrong.
Now the enemy lived inside, refusing to leave, intent on stealing her victory and turning the manor into his own domain.
She realized compromises would not work; peace was impossible.
Saturday marked the point of no return. Returning from the city, before reaching the front door, she heard an unfamiliar female voice on the terrace, echoing Eleanors animated gestures toward the garden.
and here, Ruth, I see a splendid Alpine mound. Those oldfashioned roses could be removed. Lets make a lawn, more space, more air!
Emily paused in the shade of an ivyclad arch, unseen, listening to every word.
Brilliant idea, Ruth, replied the other decorator, the garden needs a capitalcity chic. Well remake it. David will love it.
Inside Emily, something snappednot with a crash, but a quiet finality. This garden was hers, nurtured, healed, celebrated. It was not a mere backdrop but her creation.
They, without asking, decided its fate, reshaping and destroying.
Enough.
She did not rise to a scene; she simply turned, entered her car, and drove away in silence.
No resentment, no fury remainedonly a cold, crystalclear calculation, the same that had once saved their business. She dialed a commercialproperty agent. Hello, Simon, good afternoon. I need a flat to let immediately. VIP client status, conditions attached.
Three hours later she returned. David was in the kitchen, midargument. Emily placed keys and a dossier on the table.
Good evening, Mrs Whitcombe, Ruth. Im glad you could join to discuss my gardens design, she said.
Ruth blushed, while Eleanor straightened.
We were merely sharing ideas, dear, for the common good, Eleanor replied.
Indeed, Emily nodded, turning to David. Ive solved the problem.
What problem? he asked, puzzled.
Mums discomfort. Shes right: she needs her own place, where she can be the mistress of her domain, free from anyone elses taste.
Emily unfolded the dossier.
Ive arranged a flat for Eleanor Whitcombe in a new development, concierge service, ten minutes from here, spacious, bright, with topnotch finishes. We can view it tomorrow at ten. All agreements are set.
Silence fell. David looked between his wife and his mother, words failing him. Eleanors face went pale.
So youre kicking me out? she whispered.
Not kicking, Emily smiled, warmth absent from her lips. Im giving you what youve long desiredfreedom. Freedom from my drapes, my spices, my roses. Youll be able to buy any furniture, hire any designer, create the cosy haven youve dreamed of, at our expense.
It was a flawless move. She didnt evict; she gifted. Refusing the gift would mean admitting the battle was never about comfort, but control over her territory.
David tried to defuse with a nervous joke. Emily, youre a dreamer. Why complicate things? Mum didnt mean it that way.
Eleanors face hardened, anger flashing.
Youll let her treat me like this? Throw me out of your home?
This is my home, Emily declared. Im not evicting. Im offering better terms.
The evening drifted into a quiet truce. When Ruth hurried away, David entered the bedroom where Emily was packing Eleanors belongings.
That was harsh. We could have just talked, he said.
I spoke, Emily replied, meeting his gaze. Dozens of times. But you heard only the curtains and jars. To me, it was my life being trampled, proving I was nothing.
She moved to the window, the garden darkening beyond.
Twenty years, David. Twenty years of being told I was worthless. I stayed silent, worked, built this houseour houseto prove I mattered. She came to strip it away. I wont let her. This house is our fortress, not a battlefield where I must fight for every breath.
I wont fight your mother, David said. Ill just clear her from the line of fire. Choose now.
He fell silent, and in that silence Emily saw he finally understood the limits of her patience and love.
The move happened in three days. Eleanor never spoke to Emily again, only casting hostile glances as the furniture was hauled away. When it was finished, Eleanor stood in the centre of the new, bright, empty flather flat.
I hope youll enjoy it, Emily said as she left.
No answer came.
Two months later the house felt differentlighter. Emily sang while preparing breakfast. She and David laughed more, recalling trivialities. The manor stopped being a fortress to defend; it became simply a home.
Every Sunday they visited Eleanor. She had arranged the flat to her taste, hung light curtains, but the warmth was missinga sterile, almost hotellike cleanliness. She chatted with David, barely noticing Emily.
One day Emily heard Eleanor complain about a broken tap: Called the council, they said wait three days. Imagine if your father could just fix everything with a wave.
That was the moment Emily realised it wasnt about wealth or poverty. It was about power. Eleanor was desperate to reclaim control, even over the smallest corner of her daughterinlaws world.
Emily, no longer the girl from the rented studio, walked to David, took his hand, and faced Eleanor.
Well call a plumber, Mrs Whitcombe. No worries.
There was no triumph, no spiteonly an empty calm. The woman who had once sentenced her now lived in the room of her life, and Emily paid the rent with her own peacea deal more valuable than any fortune.
A year passed. Goldcoloured autumn bathed the garden in warm light. Emily sat on the terrace, wrapped in a blanket, watching her roses fade gracefully, their wilted beauty a testament to time. She had almost forgotten the lingering dread that had haunted her for months.
David appeared with two mugs, sat beside her.
Cold? he asked.
No, Im fine, she replied, leaning into his shoulder. Their relationship had shifted; the shadow of his debt to his mother and her resentment had vanished. They were simply a team.
Mum called, David said gently.
Emily remained composed. The call no longer stirred any emotion; it was routine.
She asked if we could move the wardrobe. Says theres dust building up, he added.
They exchanged a looka new routine of small requests, a reminder of Eleanors lingering weakness seeking to pull them back.
Tell her well hire removal men, Emily said calmly. Well pay for it. We have a trusted firm.
David nodded, dialed the number. No arguments, no pleading, just the rules of a new game accepted.
The next day Emily flipped through old photo albums, finding a picture of herself and David, young and carefree, hugging against the peeling wall of their first flat. They had been blissfully reckless.
She stared at their faces, remembering how afraid she once was of Eleanors verdict of eternal poverty and rented corners. Now she understood: Eleanors warning was right about one thingpoverty is terrifying. But it was not her own poverty that had driven her; it had been a temporary spark, a launchpad to fight, to build.
Eleanors poverty was of the soulan inability to rejoice in anothers success, a constant hunt for blame, a need to diminish others to feel powerful.
Emily closed the album, no longer feeling like a victor of some ancient war. There was no war, only the tragedy of a woman who locked herself in a cage of envy and rage.
Her manor with its towers was not a trophy or a fortress. It was simply a home, scented with apples from her orchard, a place where she and David could sit in silence, hands intertwined.
And at last, she found not wealth but peace.
