You’re poor and will always be stuck in a rented flat, Edith Bartholomew would snarl. And now youre renting a room in my castle.
Can we change the curtains? Mabels voice hung heavy, like velvet drapes shed never liked. This colour it suffocates the room. Makes it gloomy.
Gwendolyn surveyed the space. She had picked that deep burgundy velvet herself, a fabric that matched the light walls and the antique sideboard perfectlya tiny triumph for her inner designer.
So you dont like it?
Not at all, dear. As they say, dont look a gift horse in the mouth Im just sharing my opinion. I have a right to my own thoughts in my sons house, dont I?
Gwendolyn stared at her motherinlaw, hands clasped, a faint disgust playing over her features as she surveyed the room.
Her own roomthe very one she and Martin had handed over to Edith in their new house. In their castle, as Martin liked to joke when he pointed at the mockmedieval towers theyd built in the garden, the ones Gwendolyn had dreamed of as a child.
Of course you do, Edith Bartholomew, Martin said.
Good. I was beginning to think even breathing here would need a permit.
Twenty years had slipped by, and nothing else really changed. Only the décor had been refreshed.
Once theyd been squatting in a tiny studio with flowerpatterned wallpaper; now they occupied a spacious home, every square foot earned through countless evenings of coding, pitching to investors, and sleepless nights.
I just want a touch of coziness, Gwendolyn added, running a fingertip over the polished sideboard. Theres dust. It needs a wipe. But you wont get used to it. You and Martin have spent years crawling through other peoples crummy flats.
A familiar pressure settled in Gwendolyns chest. Not painful, but like the phantom ache of a longlost limb. She remembered.
She remembered the day theyd first moved into that cramped starter flat on the outskirts of Reading, with a leaky tap and a creaking parquet. They were tremblingly happy.
And then shed arrived. Scanning their modest abode, pursing her lips, and delivering a verdict that wasnt aimed at Martin but squarely at Gwendolyn.
Youre poor and youll always drag him down. Remember my words: youll never have anything of your own.
Gwendolyn stayed silent. What could she say? She was a twentyyearold, headoverheels in love, convinced love conquers all.
It didat a cost of twenty years of blood, sweat, and sleepless nights, two engagement rings pawned to the bank, and a risky tech startup that finally took off and allowed them to afford everything. Meanwhile, Edith had lost everything: first her husband, then her citycentre flat, after shed been duped by a highsociety lady into a shady investment.
A thirst for easy money and status left her with nothing.
Martin says you gave me the finest guest room, Edith said, gliding to the window with a view of the garden. Presumably so I can watch you fuss about roses and not forget your place.
Our place is right here now, Gwendolyn replied firmly. And yours, too.
My place, dear, was in my own flat, Edith snapped. This is just a temporary sheltera generous gesture to show everyone what a good wife my son has. No grudges.
She turned, and Gwendolyn saw the same cold, poisonous disdain shed felt two decades ago.
The main thing is your castle doesnt collapse like a house of cards, Gwendolyn. Falling from that height would hurt a lot.
That evening, over dinner, Edith revisited the curtain issue, this time addressing only Martin.
Martin, youve got status now, your own company. Partners will be coming over, and the house has to reflect that. Those dark rooms they give a oppressive vibe.
Gwendolyn placed a salad on the table, hands steady. Shed learned not to tremble long ago.
My mother, we like it, Martin said gently. Mabel chose everything herself; she has a great eye.
Mabels taste is practical, Edith replied with a patronising smile. Shes used to things being spotless forevergood for lean times.
But now we can afford a little lightness. I know a brilliant decorator who could give us a few pointers.
Gwendolyn felt the walls closing in. Decline and youre obstinate; agree and you admit your taste is worthless.
Ill think about it, she said evenly.
Thinking wont do, love. You need to act before the house becomes too suburban.
The next day Gwendolyn entered the kitchen and froze. All her spice jarscarefully collected from trips around the world and arranged in a system only she understoodhad been pushed into a corner. In their place sat Ediths porcelain set, the only thing shed managed to cling to from her past life.
I just tidied up a bit, Edith said from behind her, eyes scanning the chaos. A man needs order at home; it soothes him.
Gwendolyn silently gathered her spices and began restoring them.
You didnt have to, I could have done it myself.
Of course you could, Edith sighed. Youre always doing everything yourself. Strong women make weak men. Youve taken everything on, and Martin got used to that. He needed to feel like the head from day one.
That hit Gwendolyn like a punch to the gut. All those years shed spent as a programmer beside her husband, writing code at night, supporting him after failures, hunting investors for their first projecteverything was reduced to a single line: shed made him weak.
That night she tried to talk to Martin. He listened, hugged her, and said, Mabel, shes an old lady whos lost everything. She just wants to feel useful, to help in the only way she knows. Are the spice jars really that important?
Its not about the jars, Martin! Its about her diminishing everything I am, everything Ive built!
She doesnt know you, he replied calmly. Give her time. Shell see how wonderful you are to me.
Gwendolyn stepped back. He didnt get it. He loved her, stood by her, but he couldnt see the poison seeping from every word her mother uttered. He only saw her tragedy, not her essence.
That night she stared out of the bedroom window at her garden. Shed planted every rose, designed every path. The house was her fortress, proof that Edith was wrong.
Now the enemy lived inside, and she wasnt going to let him hand over the victory.
She realised compromise was futile. No peace would come.
Saturday marked the point of no return. Returning from work, she heard a strangers voice from the terrace, accompanied by Ediths animated gestures.
On the terrace, in her favourite armchair, sat a wellkept lady, while Edith, waving her arms, pointed at the garden.
and here, Ivy, I see a lovely alpine border. Those oldfashioned roses can go. They just take up space. Lets make a lawn, some air, some space!
Ivy, the decorator, chimed, Brilliant idea, Edith. This garden needs a dash of London chic. Martin will love it.
Inside Gwendolyn, something crackednot with a crash, but with a quiet finality. It was her garden, her labour of love, being rewritten without her consent.
Enough.
She didnt confront them. She simply turned, got into the car, and drove away.
Inside her, there was no rage, only a cool, crystalclear calculationthe same that had saved their business before. She dialled her commercialproperty agent, Hello, Susan. I need a flat to rent immediately. VIP client, details to follow.
Three hours later she was back. Martin was in the kitchen, a tense conversation hanging in the air. Gwendolyn placed a set of keys and a folder on the table.
Good evening, Edith, Ivy. Glad you could join us to discuss my gardens design, she said.
Ivy blushed; Edith straightened her posture.
We were just sharing ideas, love, for the common good.
Of course, Gwendolyn replied, turning to Martin. Martin, problem solved.
He looked puzzled. What problem?
Moms discomfort. Shes right: she needs her own place where she can be the lady of the house, not forced to live with someone elses taste.
Gwendolyn spread the folder. Ive booked a flat for Edith in a new development, concierge service, ten minutes from here, bright, fully refitted. We can view it tomorrow at ten. Everythings arranged.
Silence fell. Martins eyes flicked between his wife and his mother; Ediths face went pale.
So youre kicking me out? she asked.
Not kicking, dear, Gwendolyn smiled, a smile with no warmth. Im giving you what youve always wantedfreedom. Freedom from my curtains, my spices, my roses. You can buy any furniture, hire any designer, enjoy the comfort youve dreamed of. On us.
It was a flawless move. She wasnt evicting; she was gifting. Refusing the gift meant admitting the battle was about control, not comfort.
Martin tried to joke, Mabel, youre a schemer. Why make it so complicated?
But Ediths face hardened. Youll let her do this to me? Throw me out of my own home?
This is my home too, Gwendolyn said firmly. Im not evicting. Im offering better terms.
The rest of the evening Martin spent smoothing over the tension. When Ivy rushed out, he slipped into the bedroom where Gwendolyn was packing Ediths belongings.
Too harsh, he said. We could have just talked.
I did, a dozen times, she replied, meeting his gaze. You only heard about curtains and spice jars. To me, its my life being trampled day after day.
She walked to the window, looking out over the darkening garden.
Twenty years, Martin. Two decades of being told Im worthless. I kept quiet, worked, built this houseour houseto prove Im worth something. And she came to steal 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 quietly. Ill just move her out of the line of fire. Your choice now.
He fell silent, and in that silence Gwendolyn saw he finally understood the limits of his patience and love.
The move happened in three days. Edith never spoke to Gwendolyn again, only casting hostile glances as their belongings were carried away in silence. When it was all done, Edith stood in the empty, bright new flat shed taken over.
I hope youll enjoy it, Gwendolyn said, at the doorway.
No reply.
Two months later the house felt differentlighter. Gwendolyn sang while making breakfast. She and Martin laughed more, recalling trivial moments. The castle had stopped being a fortress to defend and became simply a home, theirs.
Every Sunday they visited Edith. Shed dressed the flat in her own taste, hung bright curtains, but the place felt more like a hotel than a homeclean, sterile, and she barely acknowledged Gwendolyn.
One day Gwendolyn overheard Edith grudgingly telling Martin about a busted tap: Called the council, they said three days. Imagine if your father could just fix everything in one go.
Thats when Gwendolyn realised it wasnt about money or poverty. It was about power. Edith, desperate to reclaim control, tried to dominate even the smallest corner of her daughterinlaws life.
But Gwendolyn was no longer the girl in a rented studio.
She took Martins hand, faced Edith, and said, Well call a plumber, Edith. No need to worry.
There was no glee, no remorsejust the calm of someone who had turned a twentyyearold verdict into a quiet, profitable peace.
A year later, golden autumn bathed the garden in warmth. Gwendolyn sat on the terrace, wrapped in a blanket, watching her roses fade gracefully.
Martin brought two mugs and sat beside her.
Cold? he asked.
No, Im fine, she replied, leaning into his shoulder. Their relationship had shed the last shadows of his debt to his mother and the lingering resentment. They were simply a team.
Mother called, Martin said gently.
Gwendolyn stayed composed. Whats she want?
Wants us to move the wardrobe. Says theres dust up there.
They exchanged a lookanother tiny request, another subtle tug for control.
Well call the movers, Gwendolyn said. Well pay for them. We have a reliable company.
Martin nodded, dialed the number, and the afternoon passed without drama.
The next day Gwendolyn flipped through old photo albums, landing on a picture of herself and Martin as freshfaced twentysomethings, hugging in front of the peeling wall of their first flat, ecstatic.
She stared at their faces, remembering how terrified shed been of Ediths condemnationsher curse of perpetual poverty and rented corners.
Now she understood: Ediths only truth was that poverty is frightening. But hers had been a temporary spur, a launchpad. Ediths poverty was spirituala refusal to rejoice in others success, a constant hunt for scapegoats, a need to belittle to feel powerful.
Gwendolyn closed the album, no longer feeling like a victor of some ancient war. There had been no war, just the tragedy of a woman who locked herself in a cage of jealousy.
Her castle with its towers was not a trophy; it was simply a home scented with apples from her gardena place where she and Martin could sit quietly, hand in hand, and finally find peace, not riches.
