20October2025
Dear Diary,
You’re poor and will always live in a rented flat, my motherinlaw used to say. Now shes taken a room in my manor.
Could we change the curtains? Eleanor Greens voice, heavy as velvet drapes, lingered behind me. That colour it feels oppressive. It makes the room look gloomy.
I turned slowly. I had chosen that fabric myselfa deep burgundy velvet that matched the light walls and the antique sideboard. It was a small triumph of my own taste.
You dont like it? she asked.
Not at all, dear. As the saying goes, a gift horse is still a horse Im merely voicing my opinion. I have a right to my own thoughts in my sons house, dont I?
I watched her, arms crossed, a faint disdain in her eyes as she surveyed the spacemy space. The very room we had given her in the new house, the castle James joked about when we first saw the towers wed dreamed of as children.
Of course you do, Eleanor, I replied.
And thats fine. I was beginning to think Id have to file a report just to breathe in here.
Twenty years have passed and nothing has truly changed; only the décor has. What was once a cramped studio with floral wallpaper is now a spacious home, every square foot the result of years of hard work with James.
I just want a bit of cosiness, she continued, trailing a fingertip across the polished sideboard. Theres dust. It needs wiping. But youre used to it, arent you? You and James have spent years living in other peoples rooms.
A tightness rose inside menot pain, but a familiar phantom ache, like a limb that was amputated long ago. I remembered.
I recalled the day James and I first moved into our modest first flat on the outskirts of Londona leaky tap, a creaking parquet, trembling happiness.
Then she arrived. She swept her gaze over our humble home, pursed her lips, and delivered a verdictnot at my husband, but at me.
Youre poor, and youll always drag him down. Remember my words: youll never have anything of your own.
I kept silent. What could I say? I was a twentyyearold, in love, convinced that love would conquer all.
It did, but at a cost. Twenty years of relentless work, sleepless nights, two pledged rings lodged in a bank, and a risky tech startup that finally paid off, allowing us to afford everything we now enjoy. Meanwhile, Eleanor lost everythingfirst her husband, then the flat in the city centreafter investing in a scam suggested by a very fashionable lady. A craving for easy money and status left her emptyhanded.
James says youve given me the best guest room, Eleanor said, moving to the window overlooking the garden. So I can watch you fuss with the roses and not forget your place.
Our place is here now, I said firmly. And yours as well.
My place, dear, was my flat, she snapped. This is a temporary shelter, a generous gesture to show everyone how good a wife I am to my sons husband. Not vindictive.
She turned, and I saw the same cold, poisonous contempt that had been there twenty years ago.
The important thing is your castle doesnt turn out to be a house of cards, Emily. Falling from that height would hurt terribly.
That evening, over dinner, she returned to the curtains, addressing James only.
James, Ive been thinking You now have a status, your own company. Partners will visit. The house must reflect that. These dark rooms give a gloomy impression.
I set a salad on the table, my hands steady. I had learned long ago not to tremble.
Mom, we like it, James said softly. Emily chose everything herself; she has great taste.
Emily has practical taste, Eleanor replied, granting me a patronising smile. Shes used to things being tidy foreveruseful for lean times.
But now we can afford a little lightness. I have a friend, a brilliant decorator, who could give a few suggestions.
I felt cornered. Refuse, and Id be stubborn, not wanting good for the house; agree, and my own taste would be dismissed as worthless.
Ill think about it, I answered evenly.
Thinking wont do, love. You need to act before the house becomes overly suburban.
The next day I entered the kitchen and froze. All my spice jarscollected over years from around the world and neatly arrangedhad been pushed into one corner. In their place sat Eleanors old tea set, the only relic shed taken from her past life.
I just tidied up a bit, she said from behind me. Your place was a mess. A man needs order at home; it calms him.
I silently gathered my spices and began to replace them.
You didnt have to, she protested.
Of course I did, she sighed. Youre always doing everything yourself. Strong women like you make men weak. Youve taken everything on, and James got used to it. He needed to feel like the head from the start.
Those words struck me like a blow to the windpipe. All the years Id spent coding late nights, supporting James after failures, seeking investors for our first projectall of it now reduced to a single sentence: I had made him weak.
That evening I tried to speak with James. He listened, hugged me, and said, Emily, shes an old lady whos lost everything. She just wants to feel needed. Does she really matter that much to you?
Its not about the jars, I snapped. Its that she devalues everything I am and everything Ive built.
She doesnt know you, James replied gently. Give her time. Shell see how wonderful you are.
I stepped back, feeling unheard. She saw only a tragedy, not the poison seeping from every remark her mother made. That night I stared out of the bedroom window at the garden I had planted myself, designed every path. This house was my fortress, proof that Eleanor was wrong.
But now the enemy lived inside, and she wasnt leaving. Compromise seemed impossible. The point of no return arrived on a Saturday. Returning from town, I heard an unfamiliar female voice from the terrace, echoing Eleanors animated gestures.
On the terrace, in her favourite armchair, sat a wellkept lady, while Eleanor pointed at the garden. and here, I see a lovely alpine rockery. Those old roses could be removed. Lets make a lawn, more space, more air!
I stood in the shadow of a ivycovered arch, unseen, hearing every word.
Brilliant idea, Al, replied Maggie, the decorator. The garden needs a capitalcity chic. James will love it.
Inside me something torenot with a crash, but a quiet, final break. This was my garden, my labour of love. They were deciding its fate without asking.
Enough.
I didnt raise my voice. I simply turned, got into the car, and drove away. No anger, no revenge, just a crystalclear calculation that had saved our business before. I called my commercial property agent, Serge, good afternoon. I need a flat to let immediately. VIP client status, Ill send the terms.
Three hours later I returned. James was in the kitchen, a tense conversation lingering. I placed the keys and a folder of documents on the table.
Good evening, Eleanor, Maggie. Im glad youve found time to discuss the garden design, I said.
Maggie blushed; Eleanor straightened.
We were just sharing ideas for the common good, Eleanor said, trying to sound charitable.
Indeed, I nodded, turning to James. James, Ive solved the problem.
He looked puzzled. Which problem?
My motherinlaws discomfort. Shes right: she needs a place of her own where she can be the master of her domain, free from anyone elses taste.
I spread the folder. Ive arranged a flat for Eleanor in a new development, concierge service, ten minutes away. Spacious, bright, with topnotch finishes. We can view it tomorrow at ten. All agreements are ready.
Silence fell. James stared between his wife and his mother; Eleanors face went pale.
So youre evicting me? she whispered.
No, what were doing is giving you what youve always wantedfreedom, I said, my smile devoid of warmth. Freedom from my curtains, my spices, my roses. Youll be able to buy any furniture, hire any designer, and create the cosy home you dream of, at our expense.
It was a flawless move. I wasnt driving her out; I was offering a gift. Refusing it would mean conceding that the real battle was over control of the space, not comfort.
James tried to defuse with humour, Emily, youre a dreamer. Why make it so complicated? He turned to his mother, Mum, she didnt mean that.
Eleanors expression hardened. Are you going to let her push me out of my own home?
This is my home, too, I replied firmly. Im not evicting. Im improving conditions.
The evening passed with James attempting to smooth things over. When Maggie left in a rush, he slipped into the bedroom where I was packing Eleanors belongings.
It was too harsh. We could have just talked, he said.
I told her dozens of times, I replied, looking him in the eye. But you heard only about curtains and jars. To me those were symbols of my life being trampled daily.
I moved to the window, the garden darkening outside. Twenty years, James. Twenty years of being told Im worthless. I kept quiet, worked, built this house to prove Im worth something. She came 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, James said. Ill just remove her from the line of fire. Choose now.
He fell silent, and in that silence I saw he finally understood that my patience and love also had limits, and that limit had been reached.
The move was completed within three days. Eleanor never spoke to me again, merely casting vicious glances as the movers carried everything away. When it was all done, she stood in the centre of her new, bright but empty flat.
I hope you like it here, I said as I left.
She said nothing.
Two months later the air in the house felt lighter. I sang while making breakfast. James and I laughed more, recalling trivial things. The castle ceased to be a fortress to defend; it became simply our home.
Every Sunday we visited Eleanor. She had decorated her flat to her taste, bright curtains hanging, but the coziness was missingjust a sterile, almost hotellike cleanliness. She chatted with James, barely noticing me.
One day I overheard her complain to James about a broken tap: called the council, they said well wait three days. Imagine if your father could sort everything with one wave.
Thats when it all clicked. It wasnt about me. It was about losing power. Eleanor desperately tried to reclaim control by managing even the tiniest corner of my world.
But I was no longer the woman who had lived in a rented studio.
I took Jamess hand and faced Eleanor. Well call a plumber, Eleanor. Dont worry.
There was no triumph, no spitejust emptiness. The woman who had sentenced 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. It was the best deal Id ever struck.
A year later, golden autumn bathed the garden in warm light. I sat on the terrace, wrapped in a blanket, watching my roses fade gracefully, their wilted beauty a reminder of the passage of time. James joined me with two cups of tea.
Cold? he asked.
No, Im fine, I replied, feeling his arm around my shoulders. Our relationship had shifted; the old resentment had vanished. We were simply a team.
Mum called, he said gently.
I remained calm. Her calls no longer stirred emotions; they were just part of the routine.
Anything? I asked.
She asked if we could move a wardrobe. Says theres dust building up, he replied.
We exchanged a glanceanother subtle request to keep her involved in our life.
Tell her well hire removers, I said. Well pay for it. We have a trusted company.
James nodded, dialed the number, and there were no arguments, no do it yourself pleas. He understood the new rules of the game and accepted them.
The next day I was sorting through old photo albums and found a picture of James and me, young and beaming, hugging in front of the cracked wall of our first flat. We were ecstatic then.
I stared at those faces, remembering how terrified I had been of Eleanors verdicther declaration that poverty was a lifelong sentence. Now I realised her warning was accurate in only one sense: true poverty is a state of mind, not a bank balance. My own modesty had been a springboard, a push to strive and build.
Eleanors poverty lay in her soulher inability to rejoice in others success, her constant search for blame, her need to belittle to feel powerful.
I closed the album, no longer feeling like a victor in some ancient war. There was no war, merely the tragedy of a woman who had trapped herself in a cage of envy and anger.
My manor, with its towers, was not a trophy or a fortress. It was just a home, smelling of apples from the orchard I tend.
A place where James and I can sit together in silence, hand in hand. A place where I finally found not wealth, but peace.
