The Silence in the House: How a Sewing Machine Changed a Fate
One morning, Edward left for work as usual. Catherine remained in the dim bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed as if gathering strength for something important. Instead of heading to the kitchen as she always did, she made her way to the storage cupboard. Pushing aside an old stepladder, she reached for a dusty sewing machine atop the highest shelf. With a heavy sigh, she carried it into the living room… That evening, when Edward returned, he was met with shock. Dirty dishes filled the sink, shirts lay unwashed in the machine, and Catherine, without so much as a glance, retreated to her room, where light and music created an air of strange celebration. Edward stood in the middle of the kitchen, bewildered.
“These trousers still look uneven,” Edward muttered, scrutinising himself in the mirror with familiar displeasure. “Catherine, did you even check the creases? It’s a disaster!”
Catherine stood behind him, arms crossed. She could see his expensive navy trousers were pressed to perfection—sharp creases, not a wrinkle or speck in sight. But she didn’t argue. This morning ritual had long since become routine, and she’d learned to hold her tongue.
“They look fine, dear,” she replied quietly, masking her irritation.
“I’m not nitpicking, I’m pointing out mistakes!” he snapped. “Is it really so hard to do as I ask? Am I asking for the impossible?”
One last critical glance, then he grabbed his briefcase and threw over his shoulder, “Fine, it’ll do. Big deal today—I’ll be late.” He pecked Catherine’s cheek and slammed the door.
She turned off the hallway light and sank onto the shoe bench. These thirty minutes of solitude were her daily refuge—a time to dwell on bitter thoughts about her life. Where had she gone wrong? How had it come to this?
Catherine and Edward had met at university. She studied history, dreaming of becoming a teacher; he, engineering. Their love had been the kind written about in novels—pure, penniless, yet full of hope. It gave them the courage to marry despite empty pockets and meagre grants. Their parents couldn’t help—both families barely scraped by.
There was no wedding—just a registry office signing. The money from their parents bought a bed and basic necessities for their dorm room. Catherine’s only dowry was her grandmother’s old sewing machine. Refusing it would’ve been awkward, though she’d had no time to sew. It gathered dust on the windowsill, covered by a faded towel.
In their final year, Edward landed a job at a construction firm. He quickly rose from junior engineer to manager, while Catherine began teaching. Her history lessons were lively, captivating—she adored the children and dreamed of having her own, hoping soon to be a mother.
“Why rush?” Edward would say, damping her hopes. “We can barely fit two in this shoebox.”
By then, they’d moved to a one-bedroom flat, and Edward traded the bus for a second-hand saloon.
“Why bother with that school?” he’d snap. “The house is a mess, you’re gone all day, then buried in marking. I’ve told you—stay home, tend the house. Once things are in order, we’ll talk children.”
Catherine managed it all—cleaning, cooking, laundry. Yet Edward always found fault. She left for work earlier, so breakfast grew cold. Elaborate meals took too much time; reheated soup or yesterday’s cutlets earned a grimace. Freshly pressed shirts were a morning demand, but she only ironed once a week. His complaints grew louder.
“When will you quit and start properly caring for your husband and home?” he’d say. “Your salary’s useless—we’d manage fine without it.”
After three years, Catherine gave in. She left the school, devoting herself to the house—or rather, to Edward, for children never came. By then, Edward had a high-ranking position, often working late at home.
“A child, Catherine?” he’d scoff. “It’ll scream, keep us awake, disrupt my work. Want me sacked? You don’t earn—it’s all on me!”
The house became Catherine’s battleground. She cleaned daily, cooked elaborate meals Edward insisted be served fresh. He despised takeaway, forbidding deliveries. She scoured cookbooks, honed her skills, yet he always found fault—underseasoned, over-spiced, meat too tough.
At first, she argued. Soon, she fell silent. Protesting was pointless—he was never satisfied.
“These cutlets are better than last time,” he’d say, “but the spices are off.”
“I’ll try others next time. Which do you prefer?”
“How should I know? You’re the homemaker—figure it out.”
Once, they’d discussed his work, projects—Catherine offering sharp advice. Now, meals passed in silence, Edward glued to his phone before retreating to his study. They lived in a spacious flat, yet Catherine called it empty—as hollow as her heart.
Grandmother’s sewing machine moved with them, flat to flat. Edward often threatened to toss it.
“You don’t sew—why keep it?” he’d grumble.
“It’s a memory. A gift. Leave it.”
“And this rubbish?” He’d point to a bag of patterns.
“They’re not rubbish. They’re patterns. Leave them.”
Oddly, Catherine stood firm here. Edward shrugged but let it be.
…That morning, after Edward left, Catherine sat in darkness before marching to the cupboard. Retrieving the machine and old patterns, she found cotton fabric bought years ago for a blouse, never used. Holding it to the mirror, she noted how its emerald hue deepened her chestnut hair. Then she began to create.
That evening, Edward returned to a silent house—dirty dishes, damp shirts, Catherine ignoring him, lost in her room’s music and light.
He fumed, but Catherine didn’t turn. She sewed, absorbed. First for herself, then friends. Soon, she bought a new machine, enrolled in online courses, devouring knowledge. She kept house, but Edward loathed her new passion.
At first, he sneered, mocked her work. Then anger took over. He waited for her to “outgrow” it, return to her old life. But she left—not sewing, but him. Quietly, without drama, as she’d lived with him for years.
Catherine rented a small flat on London’s outskirts—sunlit, cosy, perfect for sewing. Edward tried to win her back—calls, letters, visits. But Catherine was done. She’d tired of living for him, forgetting herself.
Certain she’d relent, Edward soon stopped pleading. The divorce was swift, but he insisted she forfeit all assets. She signed silently, stepping into October’s fog, her past dissolving. With nowhere to go, she ducked into the first café.
“Grim weather, but cheer up,” the barista smiled. “Try our raspberry tart—just in. Might lift your mood!”
“I divorced today,” Catherine replied, smiling for the first time in years. “It’s my second birthday. Give me that tart.”
Long-dormant emotions stirred. She ordered a vanilla latte and a slice of cake, gazing through the window where a shop sign flickered in the mist: “Fabrics.” Beside it, a notice: “Sales assistant needed. Urgent!”
Finishing her coffee, she entered. The shop was small but warm, bursting with vibrant cloth she’d never seen.
“Hello, do you still need help?” she asked the woman at the counter.
“We do,” the woman sighed. “But not just sitting—advising, knowing fabrics.”
“I sew. I know my way around.”
Unbuttoning her coat, Catherine showed off her handmade blouse and skirt.
“Not bad,” the woman mused. “I’m Eleanor, the owner. And you?”
“Catherine.”
Catherine worked there for years before opening her own studio next door. She and Eleanor became friends, building a business together. The studio flourished, Catherine hired help, her name grew known. Orders—and money—poured in.
Then she met James. Their love was quiet but true. Soon, a son arrived. Her new life brimmed with joy, shadowed only by regret—that she hadn’t started sooner. But everything in its time.
