Queen of Her Castle: Master of Her Own Home

Mistress of the House

Emily, youve forgotten to put the lid back on the butter again, Margaret sighed, noisily pulling her chair closer to the table. Now its been sitting in the fridge all night absorbing all sorts of smells. Tom, love, youre better off with the soft cheese. I picked up a fresh tub yesterday.

I felt my hand tightening around the bread knife. I kept slicing the loaf in silence, focusing on keeping the slices even though my fingers trembled. Outside, a fine October rain trickled down the windowpanes, and the kitchen seemed far too cramped for three adults.

Mum, honestly, the butters fine, Tom didnt look up from his phone, munching absentmindedly on his toast.

Well, of course, of course. I only mention it because I care, you know. Young people never realise food spoils quickly if you dont store it right. And when your stomachs in pain, wholl look after you then?

I set the bread plate on the table and sank into my chair. My head was spinning since this morning, with a nasty taste lingering in my mouth. I poured myself a cup of English Breakfast tea, hoping the heat would settle the nausea rising inside me.

Emily, youve hardly touched your breakfast, Margaret continued, peering at me over her spectacles. You look ever so thin. Tom, how do you expect to start a family with a wife in that state? A child needs a mother in good health.

Something twisted sharply inside. I took a scalding sip of tea and forced a smile.

Mrs. Walker, truly, Im just not hungry in the morning. Ive always been that way.

Always, always In my day, wed go to work with a fever and not a word of complaint. Nowadays, every little sniffle and its straight to the doctor for a sick note. By your age, I was raising Tom on my own, mind, and had a job and kept the house bright as a button.

At last, Tom tore his eyes away from his screen.

Mum, whats that got to do with anything? Emily was at the office till eight yesterday sorting out end-of-month figures.

Yes, darling, I know, I know. I just worry for you both. Young married couple, really ought to start thinking of little ones, and yet such fragile constitutions…

I got up, carrying my untouched teacup to the sink. In the windows reflection, I saw Margaret adding extra cheese to Toms plate, patting his shoulder kindly, her voice soft and caring as she spoke to her son.

Tom dear, dont forget youve that big meeting today. Ive ironed your blue shirt its on the chair.

Standing at the sink, clutching my lukewarm cup, I felt something heavy and immovable rise inside me. It was a kind of weariness, but deeper. Something close to resentment, only sharper.

And yet, three months ago, Id honestly been happy at the thought of her staying with us.

***

Margaret arrived at the end of July. It had all started with a late-night phone call, her voice shaking and almost tearful. Her downstairs neighbours in Bath had flooded her flat ruined the old wood flooring, half the furniture was ruined, shed need a major refit. The builders promised theyd be done within a week, ten days at the most.

Tom, darling, may I come stay just for a week? Hotels cost a fortune, and, truly, Id be ever so lonely, shed pleaded, and of course Tom agreed before shed finished speaking.

I was almost looking forward to it. Margaret lived in Bath, so we only saw her on holidays; our relationship had always been warm enough. She struck me as an energetic, pleasant woman a bit chatty perhaps, but always well-meaning. Since her husband died five years ago, shed lived alone, kept herself busy working at the history library and fussed endlessly over her beloved African violets.

Itll fly by, I told Tom as I mentally planned out how to ready the spare room for her. Its been ages since weve had a proper visit.

He hugged me, planting a kiss on my head.

Youre a gem. I know its awkward, but I dont like the idea of Mum being on her own, especially with that building work.

Margaret arrived weighed down with two massive suitcases and an old, string-wrapped cardboard box. Tom and I were both there to meet her at Paddington; we lugged her things back together. She looked tired, eyes red, her lips tight.

Emily, thank you for taking in this old biddy, she said, hugging me at our doorstep. Just for a few days, I promise. Once the workmen are done, Ill be out of your hair.

The first few days were almost idyllic. Margaret cooked hearty lunches, tidied up while Tom and I were at work. In the evenings, wed sit together over tea and Tescos shortbread shed brought in bulk from Bath, chatting and catching up. Tom seemed happier with her around somehow, joking more, lighter on his feet.

But by the end of the second week, little things began to shift.

At first, it was nothing. Margaret rearranged our spice rack, saying it was more sensible that way. Then she emptied our linen cupboard, folding everything in some elaborate way of her own. Id hunt around for my things in the wrong places, not sure if it was worth saying anything after all, these were just little things.

Emily, I noticed youve a layer of dust on the curtain rails, shed observe in passing, ladling out soup. Been a while since you wiped them, I expect? Not good for the allergies. Ive given them a going over now, so its all fresh.

Thank you, Margaret, Id mumble, cheeks hot. It was true, I hardly cleaned curtain rails weekly work left me wiped out, most evenings I just wanted to sink into the sofa with a book.

Im only trying to help, love, shed smile, just making things easier for the both of you.

Two and a half weeks in, she got a call from her builders the repairs were delayed. The wiring needed replacing, another ten days at least. Margaret looked disappointed, but stayed cheerful on the surface.

Dont mind me, Tom darling, am I getting in the way? Just a bit longer, thats all.

Of course not, Mum, we love having you here, Tom hugged her tightly.

I said nothing, but a faint unease had begun at the back of my mind. Just one more week, I told myself. It would be fine.

But a month passed. Then six weeks. Margaret quietly settled into our small two-bed flat. She took the room that used to be my study, with the fold-out sofa and my computer. I started working on my laptop at the kitchen table or in the bedroom, clumsily out of place, but couldnt quite bring myself to reclaim my own space.

Every evening, Margaret cooked supper tasty, if Im honest, but always what Tom loved: roast potatoes, Shepherds pie, toad-in-the-hole. I preferred lighter meals vegetables, fish but it felt awkward to mention it.

Emily, youre eating nothing again, shed sigh. Tom, look at your wife, shes wasting away! Should see a GP, you ask me, could be her stomach.

Shes really eating less, Em, Tom would say gently.

Just not hungry, Id insist, which was true. Id lost my appetite. In the mornings, I felt sick, weak all day. But I didnt want to see a doctor. I was too afraid of being told it was stress or worse, that it was all in my head.

***

In mid-September, work went bonkers. The auditors had thrown a wobbly updated reports needed urgently; the three of us in accounts were staying late most nights. I was coming home at nine, sometimes ten, with splitting headaches.

The flat would greet me with the soft glow of lamps, the aroma of dinner, and Margarets ever-present voice.

Emily, finally! Tom and I have already eaten, but Ive kept you some. Heat it up but do leave things as Ive arranged them on the hob, makes life easier, I find.

Id nod, go to the kitchen, reheat food I could hardly swallow. Tom would come in, kiss me on the cheek, share news from his day. Margaret sat nearby knitting, flicking through Womans Weekly, always there. As though the air itself had turned heavy.

Tom, do you get the feeling your mum might be staying longer than planned? I asked one night as we lay in the dark.

The work still isnt finished, he muttered sleepily. Just a bit longer. She cant go back yet.

But its been two months…

Em, shes my mum. Shes on her own, its tough for her. Cant you see that?

The words stung. I turned to face the wall. Tom was asleep in minutes, but I lay awake, listening to the faint rustling from Margarets room.

The next day, she met me after work with another offer.

Emily, shall I help you with the cleaning on Saturdays? Must be hard to find the time. Wed be quicker together.

Before I could protest, she came bustling in with mop, bucket and cloths. We cleaned together, but she provided a running commentary.

Oh look, the dust down there by the radiator is thick as ever, should hoover there. And the curtains need washing, look at them. How do you clean the fridge? You must do it every fortnight, or its a germ trap.

I nodded, wiped, scrubbed, and with every new observation, felt irritation grow inside me. But I couldnt snap. Margaret only meant well. How could I blame her?

By the end of September, I realised I felt like a guest in my own flat. An incompetent one, out of place, never good enough. Margaret ran the kitchen, oversaw the bathroom, even did Toms laundry folded it her way, starched his shirts.

Tom loves his shirts crisp, shed say fondly. Trained him from a boy.

I started washing my own things late at night, whenever the washing machine was free. Sometimes I felt I was creeping around my own home, dodging notice.

Strange dreams haunted my sleep: wandering endless corridors, hunting for my room but every door locked; trying to prepare dinner only for the saucepans and plates to vanish from my hands.

Id wake, heart racing, lie in the dark, and wish I could wake Tom, tell him how smothered I felt. But I said nothing. How do you complain about kindness, even when its quietly choking you?

***

October began and things took a turn for the odd.

One morning I woke up nauseous. I just managed to reach the bathroom before being sick. Standing over the sink, trembling and pale, I heard Margarets anxious voice at the door.

Emily, are you all right? Shall I ring for the doctor?

No, Im fine. Mustve eaten something dodgy, I croaked, splashing my face with cold water.

Something dodgy? I made those cutlets myself, bought the mince fresh. Tom ate them and hes fine, you know.

Its not the cutlets, Margaret. Just a delicate stomach, thats all.

The weakness trailed me all day. At work, the numbers on the screen blurred. My colleague, Sarah, grew worried.

You look dreadful, Emily. Maybe you should go home?

Cant. The reports are due tomorrow.

Work isnt worth your health. Please, go to the doctor.

But I didnt go. That evening, Margaret met me with a frosty welcome.

Ive been worried all evening. Tom was beside himself. Youve frightened us half to death.

Im sorry. Theres just too much to do at work.

Work, work, always work. What of the home, the family? Tom spent half the day alone at least I fed him properly.

Back in our bedroom, I fell onto the bed, my head pounding. Through the wall, Margaret and Toms muffled voices rattled on I couldnt hear the words, but Margarets tone needed no translation.

I pressed my face into the pillow and, for a moment, wished I could scream, just once, just to let it out. Of course, I kept silent.

The next morning, pulling things from my wardrobe, I spotted my favourite white blouse marked with a strange yellow stain at the collar. It had been clean the night before; I was sure.

Margaret, do you know whats happened to my blouse? I asked, stepping into the kitchen.

She turned from the cooker, all innocence.

Which blouse?

The white silk one. Its got a stain now.

I never touch your things, love. Maybe you spilt something yourself and forgot?

I looked at her, at her round, pleasantly bland face, and knew, somehow, she was lying. She knew. Shed done it.

But I had no proof. So I said nothing, put on a jumper, and dragged myself to work with a new weight pressing on me.

Then my favourite mug disappeared a big ceramic one Tom had given me for my birthday. Vanished. Margaret only shrugged.

Maybe you dropped it and threw it out? I havent seen it.

Then my nearly full bottle of shampoo emptied overnight. Margaret again claimed ignorance.

Its odd. The cap mustve leaked, I suppose.

After that, I stopped asking. Every day I slipped deeper into a murky funk. I did my job on autopilot. In the evenings, I hunched at the kitchen table, laptop open, because I couldnt bear to be in her room. Tom grew withdrawn, edgy. We nearly quarrelled several times.

Youre so jumpy lately, Em, he said one night. Is it work?

No. Not work.

Then what?

I looked at him, wanting to tell him the truth. Wanting to say I was suffocating, that I felt like an outsider. But, as usual, the words lodged in my throat.

Just tired. Sorry.

He hugged me, kissed my temple.

Just hold on a little longer. Mumll be gone soon, I promise. They say the repairs are almost done.

But they werent. Every week Margaret returned from phone calls to the builders, face carefully composed.

Just a touch more to do, darlings! Theyre putting in skirting boards and painting now… Another week at most.

Another week. Another month.

***

By the end of October I could hardly sleep. Or rather, Id lie awake, tense and alert, and wake up exhausted. Persistent dark circles formed under my eyes, my hands trembled.

One night, a furtive scraping woke me. It came from Margarets room. I propped myself up, straining to hear the rustling repeated, then stopped.

In the morning, I asked Margaret if shed heard anything in the night.

No, love, I sleep deeply. You sure it wasnt a dream?

I suppose so. Must be my nerves.

A few days later, an odd smell filled the flat sweetish, waxy, like the inside of a church. I followed my nose and traced it to the door of Margarets room.

Margaret, are you burning candles? I asked that evening.

Candles? No, why? What makes you ask?

The flat smells of wax.

Must be coming through the vents from next door.

But the smell returned most nights, barely noticeable but there. More and more, I was waking up in the dark, tense and frightened.

One afternoon, while Margaret was out, I ventured into her room. Everything looked normal the sofa neatly made, magazines stacked on the table, her violets blooming on the sill. I opened the wardrobe. Her clothes were all lined up. Underneath sat her suitcase, and that old cardboard box, still tied with string.

I knelt down and reached for it, but the slam of the front door startled me. I leapt up and scurried out. Margaret walked in with shopping bags, smiling tightly.

Emily, I thought youd be at work?

Felt off this morning. Took the day off.

Oh you poor thing, lie down, Ill make you a cuppa.

That same day, the waxy scent returned, stronger than before. Heading for the bathroom, I noticed our framed photo from the bedroom sat on the hallway shelf. When I picked it up, I saw with a shudder that my face had been scratched fine lines gouged across it, as if with a needle.

My heart hammered so loudly it drowned out everything. There I stood, clutching the frame, unable to look away from my mutilated image.

Emily? What are you doing standing there? Tom came from the bedroom, yawning.

Tom look at this.

He took the frame, peered at it.

What happened?

I only just found it. Just now, on the shelf.

Weird. Was it dropped? Maybe the glass cracked?

No, the glass is fine. The photo itself is scratched. Look.

He studied it, then shrugged.

Maybe it was printed like that, and we never noticed before?

No, Tom. This is deliberate. Somebodys taken a needle…

Who? he stared at me, baffled. Who would do that?

Silence. We both knew who else lived here, but saying it aloud felt like madness.

I must be mistaken, I muttered. Sorry.

I didnt sleep at all that night. Just stared at the ceiling, listening to Toms gentle snore and faint clicks and creaks in Margarets room.

***

November set in, bringing a chill that settled in my bones. I wore my thickest wool jumper even at home, but the cold was inside me. The nausea got worse, I barely ate, living on tea and dry crackers whenever Margaret wasnt watching.

Emily, you look dreadful, she kept saying, genuine worry in her eyes, yet some other emotion flickered there too. Satisfaction, maybe? I thought so.

At work, my manager called me in with concern.

Emily Benson, are you all right? Lately thereve been some errors figures mixed up, wrong dates. Its quite unlike you.

Im sorry, Claire. Wont happen again.

Are you sure youre well? Perhaps you should take some time off.

Time off. I imagined sitting at home, trapped in our two-bed flat with Margarets constant gaze, and the thought chilled me.

No, really, Im all right.

But I wasnt. I went through my days like a ghost. Tom tried to talk, but I answered in monosyllables. He got frustrated, closed off.

Emily, I dont know whats happened to us. I feel like youre somewhere else.

Sorry. Im just tired.

Maybe you should see a doctor? Mum says youre barely eating.

Mum says. I looked at him.

Your mother says plenty.

What? he frowned.

Nothing. Never mind.

I got up and left him sitting there.

A few days later, everything fell apart.

Coming home early, just after six, I found the flat suspiciously silent. Normally, Margaret would be in the kitchen, the telly on or chatting to a friend. But now, not a sound.

I took off my coat and headed to the bathroom, then stopped. I heard a voice a steady, murmuring whisper, coming from Margarets room.

I froze. The muttered words carried a rhythm, a strange, almost prayerful intonation. But not prayer.

I moved closer. The door stood ajar. Thin light spilled across the carpet; from the crack I could see the edge of the desk. Two thick candles burned steadily atop it.

My heart thundered. I pushed the door open.

Margaret stood with her back to me, stooped over her desk. In front of her lay a large photo of Tom, the one from his uni graduation. Beside it, a photo of me but my face on it was slashed through with black permanent marker.

I watched as Margaret passed her hand slowly over the images, muttering, something long and silver flashing between her fingers a sewing needle. She lowered the needle toward my photo.

Margaret, my voice sounded strange and hoarse.

She spun round, her face dead pale, eyes wide.

Emily you I didnt expect

What are you doing?

She quickly hid the needle, her face flustered then suddenly defiant.

Nothing, mind your own business.

The candles. The photos. What is this?

I said, its not your concern! Get out of my room!

Something inside me finally broke. Everything that had been building for months, all the exhaustion, the hurt, the fear, burst forth in one unstoppable wave.

Your room?! I stepped closer, my hands shaking. This is MY flat! MY home! And MY room that youve been living in for three months! Three!

Emily, dont raise your voice…

I will speak as I please! You sit here, scratching up my photographs, spoiling my things, making my life unbearable!

Ive not spoilt anything! she stood upright, voice icy with contempt. Youre the one destroying everything! Youve made my son miserable with another woman, hed already have children, a proper family. But you its always work, never a thought for home! Youre not a wife, youre a burden!

The words stung like a slap. I shook with fury and humiliation.

How dare you…

I dare because Im his mother! I carried him. I raised him alone! Gave him my whole life! And who are you? Some girl who lured him away!

Lured him? my voice was barely a whisper. We love each other! Were a family!

Family? She sneered. What kind of family? You cant even give him a child. Look at yourself, a frail little wisp. Youre not right for him.

That was it. I swept the candles from the desk. One rolled out, snuffing itself on the carpet. I grabbed the slashed photo and tore it in half.

Get out, I said, softly but firmly. I want you out of my flat. Right now.

What? she blanched. You cant mean that

I can and I do. This is my home. Pack your things and leave.

Tom will never forgive you for this!

Thats between Tom and me. But you will not stay here another minute.

The door rattled. Tom came home, hearing the shouting, and hurried to the room.

What the hells going on?!

Margaret rushed to him.

Tom, shes throwing me out! Your wife is throwing me into the street!

He looked between us. I stood, torn photo in hand, tears on my cheeks. He took in the desk, the candles, my ruined picture, the needle.

Mum what is all this?

Nothing, sweetheart, just I was only thinking of you…

With a needle? With crossed-out photos? His voice turned cold. Mum, whats going on?

I wanted to help! Shes wrong for you, you must see that!

Enough! he thundered, louder than Id ever heard him. Margaret flinched. I did too. Just stop!

He got out her suitcase and dropped it on the sofa.

Pack your things. Ill take you to the station. Now.

Tom…

Now, Mum!

***

Within the hour, Margaret was gone. She packed in stony silence, Tom helping her. I stood in the hallway, feeling utterly drained.

When the bags were ready, Margaret paused by the door, looking at me with a long, hard glare.

Youll regret this.

I didnt reply. Tom carried out her bags. Margaret followed, and the door shut behind them.

I was alone.

The silence was deafening. I walked into her room, surveyed the wax blobs, the ruined photographs, upturned candles. I gathered it all up, dumped it in a bag and put it on the balcony, ready for the bin.

Then I flung open the window and let the cold November air rush in. Standing there watching the wet rooftops, for the first time in months I could actually breathe.

Tom came home after midnight, looking haggard. He went straight to bed.

Shes on her way to Bath, he said, dropping onto the mattress.

I sat beside him, took his hand.

Im sorry.

What for?

Everything. That it came to this.

Emily, dont. If anyone should say sorry, its me. I didnt want to see it. I thought you were just stressed. I never imagined

He rubbed his face.

I had no idea. Shes not the woman I remember.

Shes lonely, Tom. She lost your dad. Youre all shes got.

Thats no excuse. What she did… it was wrong.

We sat in silence. Finally he hugged me tightly, and I realised he was trembling.

I was terrified I was losing you. Youd grown so distant, I thought you didnt love me anymore.

I do. But I was struggling to breathe.

Youll never feel that way here again. Not while Im around.

The next morning felt strange. Sunlight crept through the curtains. I lay still, listening: no footsteps on the kitchen floor, no rattle of pans, no Margarets voice.

I walked through the flat. Her room was empty: only my old sofa, desk, bare shelves. My room. Mine again.

In the kitchen, Tom brewed coffee. He smiled as I entered.

Morning.

Morning.

We ate breakfast together just us and for the first time in weeks, I finished my toast with no queasiness.

You really ought to see the GP, Tom said. You dont look great. Please, lets make you an appointment?

All right.

He booked me in for the next day. I made my way to the office, strangely lighter now Margaret had gone.

That evening, Tom wrapped his arms round me.

Ive been thinking about Mum. She hasnt called.

Do you think shes angry?

Most likely. But Emily, shes still my mum. I cant shut her out forever. But I cant lose you, either.

I know.

If she ever visits again, itll only be for the day. No more staying over. Well lay things out clearly.

I nodded. The fear lurked somewhere deep, but I couldnt expect Tom to cut her off entirely.

***

Next day, I went to the doctor. The GP, a kindly woman, listened carefully to my symptoms nausea, tiredness, poor appetite. She asked a few questions.

When did you last have your period?

I paused, realising I had no idea. So much had been going on, Id lost track.

Been over a month, I think.

Lets do a pregnancy test, just in case.

Pregnant? I hadnt even considered it not with everything else going on. We hadnt been careful, hoping for a baby at some stage, not now.

The test was positive.

Congratulations, she said with a smile. About six weeks along. The sickness and exhaustion are all normal. Ill refer you to the midwife.

I left, dazed. Pregnant. I was pregnant. Tom and I were going to have a baby.

I sat on a bench outside and cried from relief, from happiness, from terror, from all of it mixed.

That evening, I told Tom. He was speechless at first, then swept me off my feet and smothered me with kisses.

Are you serious? Really?

Yes. Six weeks.

Emily, I cant believe it. This is wonderful!

We sat in the kitchen, holding hands, and he kept saying over and over how much he loved me, how everything would be all right, how hed do anything to take care of us both.

***

Three weeks passed. Margaret didnt call. Tom rang her a few times, but she didnt answer. Later, she sent a curt text: Alive and well. Dont worry. Nothing more.

Gradually, I regained my strength. The sickness lingered, but I ate more and could feel my old self returning. In the evenings we redecorated my study, moving furniture, tossing out anything Margaret had left. The flat was brighter, somehow cleansed.

I started cooking again, my own favourite recipes. Tom joined me in the kitchen and we laughed like we used to, before Margarets visit.

One evening, as we lay together, Tom said,

Ive been thinking about Mum. Shell want to come when the baby arrives.

I imagine.

Do you mind?

I was quiet for a long time before I answered.

She can visit, Tom. But only as a guest, for the day. Shell never stay overnight here again. Thats my condition.

Agreed.

And I wont leave the baby alone with her at first. Maybe, one day, if she changes, but not now.

I understand. I agree.

I want peace in our home, Tom. I dont want our child to grow up in constant tension.

There wont be. Well put boundaries in place. Mum can accept them or not, but we wont give up our life for her.

I pressed against him, listening as the rain spattered the windows. Inside, all was warm and still.

Tom, do you think well manage? The baby, the family, even your mother?

I know we will. Because now we know what not to accept. Because well do it together.

I nodded. Part of me was still afraid, uncertain how things might go with Margaret in the future, whether shed respect our boundaries or try to worm her way back in.

But for now, in this moment, I felt stronger than Id ever felt before. Id learned to say no. Id fought for my home, my space, my right to be myself.

Tom, I said, putting a hand over the quiet, growing life in my belly, promise me, if Im ever struggling, youll notice. Dont pretend everythings fine.

I promise. Ill listen. Always.

***

Standing now at my kitchen window, sunlight melting through November clouds, my own room, my own home around me, I finally understand sometimes you have to claim your space, even if it means facing conflict or being thought unkind. No love, no family harmony, is worth losing yourself completely. Even in England, in a country famous for measured voices and understatement, a home must have a mistress someone who stands up for the heart of it, and draws the line when it matters most.