Long ago, in a quiet corner of London, the summer heat clung to the cobbled streets. Eleanor stood by the window, watching children dart between the elms in the square below, their laughter carried on the warm breeze. The scent of roses from the window box mingled with the damp stone of the old terrace house.
«Ellie, wheres my shirt?» came a voice from the bedroom. «The striped one!»
«Its in the wardrobe,» she replied without turning. «Top shelf.»
Thomas appeared in the doorway, fastening his cuffs. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the rough hands of a carpenter. Once, those hands had seemed sturdy, dependable. Now they only tightened her chest with dread.
«Listen,» he said, adjusting his collar. «Mums coming round today. Tidy up properlylast time she went on about the dust all evening.»
Eleanor turned slowly. A familiar irritation coiled inside her.
«Your mother always finds fault,» she said quietly. «Last time the roast was too dry, before that the pudding too sweet.»
«Then do better,» Thomas shrugged, as if discussing the weather. «Shes only trying to help. No need to take it to heart.»
Her fists clenched. This house was hers alone. Shed inherited it from her grandmother long before theyd met, furnished it with her own taste, poured her savings into its restoration. Yet Margaret Whitmore swept in like a storm, rearranging furniture, lecturing her on how a proper home should be kept.
«Tom, we live in *my* house,» Eleanor reminded him. «Perhaps you might remember that?»
He froze, his hand on the door handle.
«Whats that supposed to mean?» His voice darkened. «That I dont belong here?»
«Im saying your mother acts as if she owns the place,» Eleanor stepped closer. «And you let her.»
«Mum cares about us!» Thomas turned sharply. «About *family*! She gave up her own place for my brother, didnt she?»
Eleanor gave a bitter smile. That tale of «helping the young couple» had worn thin.
«Your mother gave Edward her flat two years ago,» she said slowly. «So what? Does that mean she can order me about in my own home?»
«*Our* home!» Thomas snapped. «Were married!»
«On your thirty-pound wages, wed be renting a garret in Whitechapel,» the words slipped out before she could stop them.
His face darkened. He loomed over her, his breath hot with anger.
«So now you throw that in my face?» His voice shook. «Because I dont earn enough?»
«Im not throwing anything,» Eleanor lifted her chin. «Only stating facts. Your mother rents now because she gave Edward her flat. Yet she lectures *us* on how to live.»
«Edward needed it!» Thomas turned to the window. «Starting a family, wasnt he?»
«Family,» Eleanor repeated. «Always about family.»
He spun back, eyes blazing.
«And why not? Five years married, and you keep putting it off. A proper wife wants children!»
«On *what*, Tom?» She spread her hands. «Your wages? Do you know what nappies cost? Or a pram? Or medicine when theyre ill?»
«Wed manage,» he waved it off. «Others do!»
«Others,» she shook her head. «And Id be stuck at home with no income while you break your back at the docks for pennies?»
Outside, sparrows chirped in the eaves. Thomas fell silent, jaw clenched.
«Enough of this,» he said at last. «Mums in trouble.»
«What now?» Eleanor stepped away from the window.
«She cant keep renting,» Thomas rubbed his neck. «Her pension wont stretch, and the landlords doubled the rent.»
Eleanor nodded. Margaret had complained for months. It was only natural shed move in with Edwardinto the very flat shed given him.
«I see,» Eleanor said. «Then Edwards lot will have to make room.»
Thomas straightened, his gaze hardening.
«Mums moving in here,» he declared. «Temporarily, till she finds somewhere.»
Eleanor went still. The words rang hollow in her ears.
«*Here*?» she repeated. «In *our* house?»
«Yes, here!» Thomas raised his voice. «Whats the fuss? Theres space enough.»
«Tom, where will she sleep? The parlour?»
«What of it?» He crossed his arms. «Mum sacrificed everything for us, and youd begrudge her a roof?»
Eleanor stepped back against the wall. Indignation churned inside her.
«Why not with Edward?» she asked quietly. «He has the flat she gave him.»
«Theyve a *child*!» Thomas roared. «They need the room! Arent we family too?»
«We *are* family, but this house is *mine*,» Eleanor reminded him.
His face darkened further. He stepped closer.
«Selfish! Always thinking of yourself! A decent wife would stand by her husband in hard times!»
Eleanor pressed against the wall. He was too near, his presence suffocating.
«You wont give me children, at least help the family this way!» he went on. «Mums given her whole life for us!»
«Tom, listen» Eleanor began, but he cut her off.
«Maybe you dont *want* a family? Then say it plain!»
She lowered her head. Thomas knew how to wound, knew every tender spot. Guilt washed over her.
«Fine,» she said quietly. «She can stay awhile.»
A week later, Margaret Whitmore took up residence in the parlour. She arrived with three trunks and at once set to rearranging. The escritoire was shoved to the window, the settee against the wall, Eleanors potted ferns exiled to the scullery.
«It wants more light in here,» the mother-in-law declared as she shifted furniture. «And those plants only gather dust.»
Eleanor watched in silence as her parlour became a strangers domain. Thomas hauled trunks, eager to please.
«Mum, will you be comfortable?» he asked gently.
«Ill make do,» sighed Margaret. «Though its a tight squeeze.»
Three months passed. Eleanor became a ghost in her own home. She crept about, fearful of disturbing her mother-in-law. Apologised for every creak, every footfall.
Margaret took full command. She tossed out Eleanors washing powder, replaced it with her own. Forbade buying proper tea.
«This is dear,» she scolded in the shop. «Get the common sort. Why waste coin?»
Mornings were spent cleaning under Margarets scrutiny. One day, taking out the ash, something caught Eleanors eye. She bent and froze.
A childhood scrapbook. The one with school photographs, pressed flowers from her grandmothers garden. Her only keepsake of girlhood.
Hands trembling, she pulled it free, stained with tea leaves.
«Margaret,» she called, stepping into the parlour. «Why was this in the bin?»
Her mother-in-law didnt glance up from her knitting.
«Oh, that? I binned it. Just clutter, taking up space.»
«These are my *memories*!» Eleanors voice shook.
«Old rubbish,» Margaret waved a hand. «Why keep it?»
Something in Eleanor snapped. Three months of humiliation, of silence, of shame, burst forth.
«*Out*!» she screamed. «Get *out* of my house this instant!»
Margaret leapt up, eyes blazing.
«How *dare* you speak so to your elders!» she shrieked. «Know your place!»
A dishevelled Thomas rushed in, taking his mothers side at once.
«Mums not going anywhere!» he roared. «*Youll* be the one on the street!»
But inside Eleanor, something had broken for good. Her fury cooled to ice. She regarded husband and mother-in-law with eerie calm.
«The deeds in my name,» she said softly. «Only *I* decide who lives here.»
«You *witch*!» Thomas stepped forward, face purple with rage. «Im your *husband*!»
«*Former* husband,» Eleanor corrected, turning to the wardrobe.
She dragged out a valise and began stuffing it with Margarets thingsblouses, skirts, shawlscareless of folding.
«Youve gone mad!» Thomas shouted. «Stop this!»
Eleanor didnt answer. She yanked slippers from under the settee, tossed them in. Margaret scurried, trying to snatch her belongings back.
«Child, *think*!» Her voice quavered with outrage. «Were *kin*!»
«*Kin*?» Eleanor whirled. «Kin dont bin childhood treasures!»
Margaret shrank back. Thomas grabbed for the valise, but Eleanor twisted away.
«Mum gave *everything* for her children!» he bellowed. «And you cast her out like a stray!»
«Five years I endured your nonsense,» Eleanor zipped the bulging case. «Three months I haunted my own home!»
She marched to the bedroom for Thomass thingsjumpers, shirts, trousersall into another bag. He followed, seizing her wrist.
«Think! Where will we *go*?»
«Not my concern,» Eleanor wrenched free. «Try Edwards.»
«Theres no *room* at Edwards!» Margaret wailed. «Theyve a *babe*!»
«And *I* have *me*!» Eleanor shouted back, hauling both bags to the door.
She returned for boots, hairpins, trinkets.
«Youll rot alone!» Thomas spat, jamming on his hat. «Youll come crawling back!»
Eleanor held the door wide. Margaret sniffled, stuffing the last of her things into a reticule.
«Girl, *reconsider*,» she pleaded. «Where shall we *live*?»
«Where you lived before *me*,» Eleanor replied.
Thomas stormed out, bag in hand. On the step he turned, face twisted.
Margaret lingered on the threshold.
«Ungrateful wretch!» she hissed. «We only wanted your *good*!»
Eleanor shut the door. Turned the key, slid the bolt. Shouts, footsteps, the clatter of the iron gate echoed from the street.
Then silence.
Eleanor leaned against the door, listening to her own breath. For the first time in months, no click of knitting needles, no creak of the settee under Margarets weight.
She walked to the parlour. Shifted the escritoire back, righted the settee. Returned her ferns to the windowsill.
Then she sat, took the rescued scrapbook in her hands. Flipped throughschool plays, a fifth birthday, her grandmothers garden in bloom.
And suddenly she laughed. Soft at first, then louder. Laughter turned to sobs, then back to laughter. She wept until her ribs ached, clutching the book to her chest.
The house was hers again. Hers alone.
