Youll always be the poor one living in a rented flat, my motherinlaw used to say. And now shes renting a room in my manor.
Can we change the curtains? I heard Agnes Whitmores voice behind me, heavy as the velvet drapes she despised. This colour it feels oppressive. It makes the room gloomy.
Ethel glanced around. She had picked the fabric herself a deep burgundy velvet that matched the light walls and the antique sideboard. It was a small triumph of her own taste.
You dont like it? I asked.
Not at all, dear. As they say, a gift horse you cant look at Im merely stating my opinion. Dont I have a right to my own view in my sons house?
Ethel stared at her motherinlaw, hands clasped, a faint sneer playing on her lips as she surveyed the room.
Her own room. The one she and I had given her in our new house, our castle as I liked to joke when we looked at the towers shed dreamed of as a child.
Of course you may, Agnes.
Good. I was beginning to think Id need a permit just to breathe in here.
Twenty years had slipped by, and little had truly changed. Only the décor had been updated. Where once there was a onebed flat with flowered wallpaper, now stood a spacious home, each square foot the result of countless evenings of work with David.
I just want a bit of comfort, she added, trailing a fingertip over the polished sideboard. Theres dust. It needs a wipe. But youre not used to it. You and David have spent years living in other peoples corners.
Inside, Ethel felt something tighten, not painful but familiar, like a phantom ache in an amputated limb. She remembered the day David and she first moved into a tiny flat on the outskirts of London, the leaking tap, the squeaky parquet. They were ecstatic, trembling with happiness.
Then Agnes arrived, surveyed their modest home, pursed her lips and passed judgment, looking not at David but at Ethel.
Youre poor and youll always drag him down. Remember my words: youll never have anything of your own.
Ethel stayed silent. What could she say? A twentyyearold woman, in love and convinced love could conquer all.
It did, but at the cost of twenty years of her life relentless work, sleepless nights, two engagement rings pledged to the bank, and a risky IT venture that finally paid off, allowing them to afford everything. Meanwhile, Agnes had lost everything first her husband, then her flat in the city centre after she invested in a scam suggested by a very respectable lady.
A hunger for easy money and status left her with nothing.
David says you gave me the best guest room, Agnes said, stepping to the window with a view of the garden. Presumably so I can watch you fuss about the roses and not forget your place.
Our place is here now, Ethel replied firmly. And yours as well.
My place, dear, was in my flat, snapped Agnes. This is only a temporary shelter, a generous gesture so everyone can see what a good wife my son has. Not a grudging one.
She turned, and in her eyes Ethel saw the same cold, poisonous disdain shed felt twenty years ago.
The main thing is your manor doesnt crumble, Ethel. Falling from such heights would hurt a lot.
At dinner, Agnes returned to the curtains, addressing David directly.
David, youve built a reputation, you run your own company. Partners come over; the house should reflect that. These dark rooms give a depressing impression.
Ethel placed a salad on the table, her hands steady. Shed learned long ago not to tremble.
Mom, we like it, David said softly. Ethel chose everything herself; she has a wonderful eye.
Ethel has a practical taste, Agnes replied, giving her daughterinlaw a patronising smile. Shes used to things staying the same forever a good trait for hard times. But now we can afford a touch of lightness. I know a brilliant interior designer who could offer a few suggestions.
Ethel felt cornered. Refuse, and shed be seen as stubborn and ungrateful; agree, and shed admit her taste was worthless.
Ill think about it, she answered evenly.
The thinkings pointless, love. We need to act before the house becomes too… provincial.
The next morning, Ethel entered the kitchen and froze. All her spice jars, collected over years from travels the world over, had been shoved into a corner. In their place sat Agness teacup set the only thing shed managed to bring from her past life.
I just tidied up a bit, Agnes said from behind her, your place was a mess. A man needs a tidy home to feel at ease.
Ethel silently gathered her spices and began restoring them to their rightful spots.
You didnt need to, Agnes protested.
Of course I did it myself, she sighed. You always do everything yourself, strong woman. Strong women make men weak. Youve shouldered everything, and David got used to it. He needed to feel dominant from the start.
The words hit Ethel like a blow to the chest. All those years coding through the night, supporting David after failures, hunting investors for their first project all reduced to a single sentence: she had made him weak.
That evening she tried to speak with David. He listened, hugged her.
Ethel, love, shes an old lady whos lost everything. She wants to feel useful. Shes trying to help in the only way she knows. Are the spice jars really that important?
Its not about the jars, David! Its about her constantly undervaluing everything I do, everything I am!
She just doesnt understand you yet, he said calmly. Give her time. Shell see how wonderful you are to me.
Ethel stepped back, feeling unheard. He loved her, stood by her, yet he could not see the poison in his mothers words. He only saw her tragedy, not her essence.
That night she stared out the bedroom window at the garden she had planted herself, designed every path. The house was her fortress, proof that Agnes had been wrong.
But now the enemy was inside, and she would not back down. Compromise seemed futile.
The point of no return came on a Saturday. Returning from town, before she even reached the door, she heard an unfamiliar female voice from the terrace, full of the motherinlaws animated tones.
On the terrace, in her favourite armchair, sat a wellkept lady, Agnes gesturing wildly at the garden.
and here, Rose, I see a lovely alpine rockery. Those oldfashioned roses could be removed. Theyre just taking up space. Lets make a lawn, something airy!
Ethel paused in the shadow of an ivyclad arch, unnoticed, listening to every word.
Brilliant idea, Rose, replied a decorator named Claire, the garden needs a capitalcity chic. Well redo everything. David will love it.
Inside Ethel felt something snap, not with a crack, but a quiet, final breaking. That garden was hers. Shed chosen each plant, cured each disease, celebrated the first bloom. It was more than a pastime; it was her creation.
Now strangers were dictating its fate, tearing down, rebuilding, destroying.
Enough, she thought.
She didnt make a scene. She turned, got into the car, and drove away in silence.
No lingering anger remained, only a cold, crystalclear calculation the very one that had saved their business before. She dialled her commercial property agent, Good afternoon, Serge. I need a rental flat ASAP, VIP client status. Ill send the terms.
Three hours later she was back. David was in the kitchen, a tense conversation hanging in the air. She placed a set of keys and a folder on the table.
Good evening, Agnes, Claire. Im glad you could find time to discuss my gardens design.
Claire blushed, while Agnes straightened.
We were just sharing ideas, love. For the common good.
Indeed, Ethel nodded, turning to David. Ive solved the problem.
What problem? he asked, puzzled.
Your mothers discomfort. Shes right: she needs her own place where she can be the mistress of her domain, not forced to live by someone elses taste.
She opened the folder.
Ive arranged a flat for Agnes in a new development, complete with a concierge, ten minutes from here, spacious, bright, freshly refurbished. We can view it tomorrow at ten. All agreements are in place.
A heavy silence fell. David looked between his wife and his mother, speechless. Agness face went ashen.
So youre kicking me out? she demanded.
No, dear, Ethel replied, her smile devoid of warmth. Im giving you what youve always wanted freedom. Freedom from my curtains, my spices, my roses. You can buy any furniture, hire any designer, create the cosy haven you dream of, on our dime.
It was a flawless move. She wasnt evicting her; she was gifting her. Refusing the gift would mean admitting the battle was about control, not comfort.
David tried to joke, Ethel, youre a dreamer. Why make it so complicated?
But Agnes was already hardening. Youll let her do this to me? To my own mother? Throw me out of our home?
This is my home too, Ethel said plainly. Im not throwing anyone out. Im offering better terms.
The evening passed with David attempting to smooth things over. When Claire hurried away, he slipped into the bedroom where Ethel was packing Agness belongings.
It was too harsh. We could have just talked.
I told you a dozen times, she replied, meeting his gaze. You heard only the curtains and the jars. For me its my life, trampled daily, making me feel insignificant.
She moved to the window, the garden darkening beyond.
Twenty years, David. Twenty years Ive been told Im nothing. I kept quiet, worked, built this house, our house, to prove both to her and myself that Im worth something. She came and wanted to take it away. I wont let her. This house is our fortress, not a battlefield where I must fight for a breath.
I wont fight your mother, he said, finally understanding. Ill just keep her out of the line of fire.
She looked at him, the silence saying it all. He had finally realised her patience, her love, also had limits and that limit had just been reached.
The move took three days. Agnes never spoke to Ethel, only cast hostile glances. All their things were carried away in silence. When everything was done, Agnes stood in the empty, bright flat that now belonged to her.
I hope youll like it here, Ethel said, offering a farewell.
There was no reply.
Two months later the house felt lighter. Ethel hummed while making breakfast. David and she laughed more, sharing small jokes. The manor ceased to be a fortress to defend; it became simply a home, ours.
Every Sunday they visited Agnes, who had arranged her flat to her taste, bright curtains hanging, but the ambience felt more like a sterile hotel than a cosy home. She chatted with David, barely noticing Ethel.
One day Ethel overheard her complain to David about a broken tap:
called the council, they said wait three days. Imagine that. If your father were here, hed have fixed it in a heartbeat.
That was the moment Ethel understood. The issue wasnt her poverty or wealth. It was a loss of power. Agnes, desperate to reclaim control, tried to dominate the only world Ethel had built.
Ethel, no longer the girl from a rented onebedroom, walked up to David, took his hand, and said to her motherinlaw:
Well call a plumber, Agnes. Dont worry.
There was no triumphal glee, no sorrow, just a quiet emptiness. The woman who had condemned her twenty years ago now lived in the room of her life, and the rent for that room was paid by Ethels own peace of mind the best deal shed ever made.
A year passed. Golden autumn drenched the garden in warm light. Ethel sat on the terrace, wrapped in a blanket, watching the roses fade gracefully.
David brought two cups of tea and sat beside her.
Cold? he asked.
No, she replied, Im fine.
He put his arm around her shoulders. Their relationship had changed; the shadow of his mothers debt and his resentment vanished. They were simply a team.
Mum called, he said gently.
Ethel stayed calm. The call no longer stirred her.
She asked if we could move the wardrobe. Says theres dust building up.
They exchanged a look a new routine. Small requests, reminders that kept her motherinlaw subtly involved.
Tell her well call a removal service, Ethel said. Well pay, we have a trusted firm.
David nodded, dialed, and the tension dissolved. Hed learned the new rules of the game and accepted them.
The next day Ethel flipped through old photo albums, landing on a picture of her and David, young and carefree, hugging in front of the peeling walls of their first flat. Their smiles were wild with joy.
She stared at those faces, recalling how terrified she once was of Agness verdict about perpetual poverty and rented corners.
Now she realised the only truth in Agness words was that poverty truly is dreadful but it had been hers, temporary, and had driven her to fight, to build.
Agness poverty, however, lived in her soul: an inability to rejoice in others success, a constant search for a scapegoat, a need to demean to feel powerful.
Ethel closed the album. She no longer felt like a victor of some ancient war. There had been no war, only the tragedy of a woman who trapped herself in a cage of envy and anger.
Her manor, with its towers, was not a trophy or a fortress. It was simply a house, scented with apples from her garden, a place where she and David could sit handinhand in silence. It was where she finally found not wealth, but peace.
