Youre poor and will always end up in a rental flat, Eleanor Whitaker says, tightening her grip on the cheap teacup. Now Im the one who rents a room in my sons house.
Can we change the curtains? Emily Harts voice comes from behind, as heavy and velvety as the drapes she despises. This colour crushes the room. It makes everything gloomy.
Emily glances around slowly. She chose this fabric herself a dense, winecoloured velvet that matches the light walls and the antique chest of drawers. Its a tiny triumph of her own design.
Dont you like it?
No, dear. As they say, dont look a gift horse in the mouth Im simply stating my opinion. I have a right to my own view in my sons home, dont I?
Emily watches her motherinlaw, hands clasped thinly across her chest, her expression a faint disdain as she surveys the room.
The very room she and James gave to Eleanor in the new house they call their manor, a joke James makes when he points at the towers hes dreamed of since childhood.
Of course, you may, Eleanor, James says.
Good, otherwise I thought Id have to file a report just to breathe here.
Twenty years have passed, and nothing has fundamentally changed. Only the décor has been swapped.
What was once a cramped studio with floral wallpaper is now a spacious home, each square foot the result of James and Emilys labour.
The massage chair helps even when I have neuropathy, James jokes, trying to lighten the mood.
I just want a bit of cosy, Emily adds, running a fingertip over the polished dresser. Theres dust. It needs wiping. But youre not used to that. You and James have spent years living in other peoples places.
A sudden tightness curls inside Emily. It isnt painful, just familiar like a phantom ache in a longlost limb. She remembers.
She remembers the day they moved into their first flat: a tiny unit on the outskirts, with a dripping tap and squeaky floorboards. They were trembling with joy.
Then Eleanor walked in, surveyed their modest home, pursed her lips, and delivered a verdict, looking not at James but straight at Emily.
Youre poor and youll always drag him down. Remember my words: youll never have anything of your own.
Emily kept silent. What could she say? A twentyyearold woman, in love and convinced that love conquers all.
And it did, at the cost of twenty years of her life: two decades of relentless work, sleepless nights, two engagement rings pledged to the bank, and a risky tech startup that finally took off, allowing them to afford everything.
Meanwhile Eleanor lost everything. First her husband, then her citycentre flat she invested in a scam suggested by a very highstatus lady. The thirst for easy money and status left her emptyhanded.
James says you gave me the best guest room, Eleanor says, moving to the window with a view of the garden. So I can watch you tending roses and not forget your place.
Our place is here now, Emily replies firmly. And yours too.
My place, dear, was my flat, Eleanor snaps. This is just a temporary shelter, a generous gesture so everyone sees what a good wife I am to my son. Not vindictive.
She turns, and Emily sees the same cold, poisonous contempt that stared back twenty years ago.
The main thing is your manor doesnt collapse like a house of cards, Emily. Falling from that height would hurt terribly.
At dinner, Eleanor returns to the curtains, addressing James politely.
James, Ive been thinking Youve got your own company now, visitors coming in. The house should reflect that. These dark rooms give a oppressive vibe.
Emily places a salad on the table, her hands steady. Shes learned not to tremble.
Mom, we like it, James says softly. Emily chose everything herself; she has great taste.
Emily has practical taste, Eleanor replies with a patronising smile. Shes used to things being tidy forever. Its a good trait for lean times. But now we can afford a bit of lightness. I know a brilliant interior designer who could give a few tips.
Emily feels cornered. Refusing would make her seem stubborn and uninterested in the homes welfare; agreeing would admit her taste is worthless.
Ill think about it, she says evenly.
Theres no time for thinking, dear. We need action before the house becomes too bourgeois.
The next morning, Emily walks into the kitchen and freezes. All her spice jars collected over years from around the world and neatly arranged have been pushed into a corner. In their place sits Eleanors porcelain set, the only thing she rescued from her past life.
I just tidied up a bit, Eleanor says from behind, Your place looks chaotic. A man likes order; it calms him.
Emily silently gathers her spices and returns them to their spots.
You didnt have to, Eleanor says.
Of course I did it myself, she sighs. Youre always doing everything yourself, strong woman. Strong women make men weak. Youve shouldered everything, and James got used to that. He needed to feel like the head from the start.
The words strike Emily like a blow to the lungs. All those years she spent coding late nights, supporting James after failures, courting investors for their first project reduced to a single sentence: she had made him weak.
That evening, she tries to talk to James. He listens, embraces her.
Emily, love, shes an old woman whos lost everything. She just wants to feel useful. Shes trying to help the only way she knows. Are those jars really that important?
Its not about the jars, James! Its about her devaluing everything I do, everything I am!
She just doesnt understand you yet, he says gently. Give her time. Shell see how wonderful you are to me.
Emily steps back. He doesnt see the poison seeping from every word her motherinlaw utters. He only sees the tragedy, not the source.
That night, Emily watches from the bedroom window over the garden she planted herself, designed every path. The house is her fortress, proof that Eleanor was wrong.
But now the enemy is inside, refusing to leave, ready to strip her of this victory and turn the manor into her own domain.
She realises pleading and compromise are futile. There will be no peaceful life.
The point of no return comes on Saturday. Emily returns from town, and before she reaches the front door she hears an unfamiliar female voice from the terrace, animated as ever.
On the terrace, perched in her favourite armchair, sits a wellkept lady, Eleanor gesturing wildly toward the garden.
and here, Rose, I see a lovely alpine hill. Those oldfashioned roses could go. Lets replace them with a lawn, more space, air!
Emily hides in the shade of an ivycovered arch, unnoticed, listening to every word.
Brilliant idea, Rose, replies the interior designer, the garden needs a capitalcity chic. Well redo everything. James will love it.
Inside Emily, something tears apartnot with a crack but with a quiet finality. That garden is hers. She remembers selecting each plant, nursing them, celebrating the first bloom. Its not just a retreat; its her creation.
And they, without asking, decide its fate, dismantling it.
Enough, she whispers to herself.
She does not make a scene. She simply turns, gets into her car and drives away.
There is no lingering anger, only a cold, crystalclear calculation the one that has saved their business before. She dials her commercialproperty agent.
Simon, good afternoon. I need a flat to let immediately. VIP client status, Ill send the terms.
Three hours later she returns. James is in the kitchen, midargument. Emily places the keys and a folder of documents on the table.
Good evening, Eleanor, Rose. Im glad youve found time to discuss my gardens design, she says.
Rose blushes; Eleanor straightens.
We were just sharing ideas for the common good, Eleanor replies.
Certainly, Emily nods and turns to James. James, Ive solved the problem.
He looks puzzled. Which problem?
The one about Mothers discomfort. Shes right: she needs her own home where she can be the lady of the house, free from anyone elses taste.
Emily spreads the folder.
Ive arranged a flat for Eleanor in a new development, complete with concierge, ten minutes from here, spacious, bright, fully refurbished. We can view it tomorrow at ten. All agreements are in place.
Silence hangs heavy. James glances between his wife and his mother; Eleanors face turns pale.
What does that mean? Youre kicking me out? James asks.
What Im doing, Emily smiles, the smile devoid of warmth, is giving you what youve long desired freedom. Freedom from my curtains, my spices, my roses. Youll be able to buy any furniture, hire any designer, create the comfort you dream of, on our dime.
It is a flawless move. She isnt evicting; she is gifting. Refusing the gift would mean admitting the fight is about power, not comfort.
James tries to joke, uneasy: Emily, youre a mastermind. Why complicate things? Mom didnt mean it that way.
Eleanors face hardens. Will you let her treat me like this? Throw me out of your home?
This is my home too, Emily replies firmly. Im not throwing anyone out. Im offering better terms.
The rest of the evening James spends smoothing the conflict. When Rose rushes out, he slips into the bedroom where Emily is packing Eleanors things into boxes.
That was harsh. We could have just talked, he says.
I told you a dozen times, Emily replies, meeting his gaze. You heard only about curtains and jars. To me it was my life being trampled daily, proving I was nothing. I built this house, our house, to show both of us Im worth something. She came to take it away. I wont let that happen. This house is our fortress, not a battlefield where I must fight for every breath.
James stays silent, realizing the limits of his patience and love. The final move is clear.
The move happens in three days. Eleanor never speaks to Emily, only casting hateful looks. All the furniture is carried away in silence. When its done, Eleanor stands in the middle of her new, bright but empty flat.
I hope you enjoy it, Emily says as she departs.
No answer follows.
Two months later the air in the house feels lighter. Emily hums while making breakfast. She and James laugh more, recalling small jokes. The manor ceases to be a fortress; it becomes simply a home, theirs.
Every Sunday they visit Eleanor. She decorates her flat in her own taste, hangs light curtains. Yet the cosy feeling is missing; the place feels more like a sterile hotel. She converses with James, barely noticing Emily.
One day Emily hears Eleanor complain to James about a broken tap:
called the council, they say wait three days. Can you imagine? Your father would have sorted it in a heartbeat.
Emily finally understands. The issue isnt about wealth or poverty. Its about losing control. Eleanor desperately tries to reclaim authority by governing the smallest part of her daughterinlaws world.
But Emily is no longer the girl from the rented studio.
She takes Jamess hand, turns to Eleanor, and says, Well call a plumber, Eleanor. Dont worry.
There is no gloat, no pity, only a calm emptiness. The woman who sentenced her twenty years ago now lives in the room of Emilys life, and the rent for that room is paid by Emily herself with her peace of mind. Its the most profitable deal shes ever made.
A year passes.
Golden autumn drenches the garden in warm light. Emily sits on the terrace, wrapped in a blanket, watching her roses. Theyre fading, but there is a mature beauty in their decline. Over the year she has almost forgotten the suffocating anxiety that haunted her for months.
James appears with two mugs and sits beside her.
Cold? he asks.
No, Im fine, she replies. He puts an arm around her shoulders. Their relationship has shifted; the shadow of his debt to his mother and her resentment has vanished. They are simply a team.
Mum called, James says gently.
Emily remains composed. The call no longer stirs emotion; its just routine.
Anything? she asks.
She asked if we could move the wardrobe. Says theres dust building up.
They exchange a look. Its a new kind of interaction small requests that remind her motherinlaw of her weakness and draw her back into their lives.
Tell her well get movers, Emily answers calmly. Well pay for it. We have a trusted firm.
James nods, dials the number. No arguments, no do it yourself, shell be happy chatter. He understands the new rules and accepts them.
The next day Emily flips through old photo albums and finds a picture of her and James, young and happy, hugging in front of the peeling wall of their first flat.
She studies their faces. Once she feared Eleanors words about eternal poverty and rented corners. Now she sees that poverty was only a temporary spark, a launchpad that pushed her forward.
Eleanors poverty was spiritual an inability to rejoice in others success, a constant hunt for blame, a need to belittle to feel powerful.
Emily closes the album. She no longer feels like a victor of some ancient war. There was no war, only the tragedy of one bitter woman who locked herself in a cage of envy.
The manor with its towers is not a trophy or a fortress. It is simply a home, smelling of apples from her garden.
A place where she and James can sit in silence, hand in hand. A place where she finally finds not wealth, but peace.
