Mistress of My Own Home
Hannah, youve forgotten to put the lid on the butter again, Mrs. Margaret Turner sighed, pulling her chair noisily to the table. Now its been sitting all night absorbing the odours from the fridge. Jack, darling, just have some cream cheese instead, I picked up a fresh tub yesterday.
I felt my fingers tighten around the knife. I kept slicing the bread in silence, trying to make even slices, though my hands were slightly trembling. October rain drizzled softly outside, running in uneven streaks down the window, and the kitchen felt too cramped for three adults.
Mum, the butters fine, Jack muttered, eyes glued to his phone, chewing on a sandwich.
Of course, of course. Im only saying it because I care. You are still young you dont realise things go bad if you dont store them properly. And when your tummies hurt, who has to look after you?
I set the plate of bread on the table and sat down quietly. My head had been spinning all morning, and my mouth tasted sour. I poured myself a mug of English Breakfast tea, hoping the heat would calm my nausea.
Hannah, youre hardly eating look how thin youre getting. Jack, how do you expect to start a family with a wife who wont eat? A child needs a healthy mother.
Something twisted sharply inside me. I took a burning sip of tea and forced myself to smile.
Mrs. Turner, Ive never had an appetite in the mornings. Always been like that.
Well, when I was your age, we went to work with a fever and didnt complain. Young people nowadays, one sneeze and youre off sick. By your age, I was bringing up Jack on my own and keeping the house immaculate and working full-time.
At last Jack looked up.
Mum, thats not fair. Hannah was at the office until eight last night getting the quarterly reports in.
I dont doubt it, love. Im just worried. Youre young, you should be planning your future and your health is all over the place…
I stood and took my untouched mug to the sink. In my reflection in the kitchen window, I saw Mrs. Turner ladle more cream cheese onto Jacks plate, patting his shoulder affectionately, her voice gentle as she spoke to him.
Love, dont forget about your meeting today. Ive ironed your blue shirt, its hanging on the chair.
I gripped my now-cold mug and let out a long, silent breath, feeling something heavy and dull press on my chest. Not simple tiredness something heavier. Not quite resentment something deeper.
Id been honestly happy three months ago when shed come to stay.
***
Mrs. Turner arrived at the end of July. She called late one evening, her voice shaky and almost in tears. Her flat in York had been badly flooded by the neighbours above water had ruined the parquet and some furniture. The builders reckoned a week, ten days tops.
Jack, sweetheart, would you mind if I stayed with you for a week? Hotels are just too dear and Id be so lonely. Shed sounded lost and Jack had, of course, agreed without hesitation.
I had actually looked forward to it. We only saw Jacks mum at Christmas, and birthdays she seemed a lively, pleasant woman; a touch too chatty, but generous. Since her husband passed away five years ago, shed lived alone, working at the York library, growing African violets for company.
Itll fly by, I told Jack while sorting out the spare room. Be nice to catch up.
He hugged me.
Youre a treasure. Its a bit cramped but Im glad she wont be facing the repairs alone.
She arrived with two massive suitcases and a cardboard box held together with string. We collected her from Kings Cross Jack and I helping her with the bags. She looked weary, with red eyes and pressed lips.
Thank you for letting a doddery old woman in, she said, hugging me at our front door. Ill be quick, honest. As soon as its sorted, Ill be out of your hair.
The first days felt oddly peaceful. Mrs. Turner made lunches, cleaned the house while Jack and I worked. In the evenings, we drank tea and shared the Hobnobs shed brought from Yorkshire, swapping stories. Jack seemed happier than hed been in ages the sound of his mothers voice lit him up.
But by the end of the second week, things subtly shifted.
It started with little things. She rearranged the spice jars, explaining her way was proper and sensible. Then she refolded the linen cupboard, sorting it her way. My belongings began popping up in unfamiliar places, and I hesitated to mention it. Silly to make a fuss over it.
Hannah, I noticed theres dust on the curtain rails, shed remark as she dished out stew, as though merely musing. Havent got round to them for a while? Dusts terrible for allergies. I wiped them down today, so thats sorted.
Thank you, Mrs. Turner, Id stammer, cheeks flaming. I barely had energy to collapse with a book after work these days, let alone clean curtain rails.
Im only helping, dear, shed beam. Less for you to worry about.
Three weeks in, the builders called with bad news: more faults in the wiring. Itd be another ten days, maybe longer. Mrs. Turner was stoic about it.
Jack, you dont mind your old mum for a bit longer, do you?
Of course not, he said, hugging her tight.
I watched silently, suppressing mild anxiety. Another week, that was all.
A month blurred by. Then a month and a half. Mrs. Turner slipped into our small flats rhythm. She took over the little room that had been my study, with its pull-out couch and desk, so I started working on my laptop in the kitchen or our bedroom awkward, but I couldnt muster the courage to ask for my room back.
Mrs. Turner prepared supper each night, always Jacks favourites: casseroles, roast potatoes, cottage pie. I preferred lighter fare vegetables, fish but it seemed impolite to ask.
Hannah, youre not eating again, shed tut, glancing from me to Jack. Youll fade away. Maybe time to see a doctor about your stomach.
You do seem off your food, said Jack with a frown.
Just not hungry, I said, honestly. I had no appetite. I felt queasy each morning, and weak all day. But seeing a doctor would mean admitting I was stressed admitting that her presence was suffocating, which I couldnt say aloud.
***
By mid-September, everything at work collapsed into chaos. The audit office demanded revised accounts so it was late nights for me and the other bookkeepers. Id drag myself home at 9 or 10 pm, head pounding.
The flat greeted me with cheery light, the aroma of dinner, and Mrs. Turners ever-present voice.
Hannah, finally! Weve eaten already, Ive left yours in the saucepan. Dont rearrange my pans Ive put them like that for convenience.
Id nod, heat up the food I could barely swallow. Jack would come in, kiss my cheek, and fill me in on his day. Mrs. Turner stationed herself on a kitchen chair, knitting, flicking through the Radio Times. Always there. Always present. The air felt thicker, heavier.
Jack, do you think your mums staying for good? I asked quietly once, late at night.
She cant live at hers until the repairs finish, he mumbled sleepily. Bear with it a bit. She cant help it.
Its been two months…
Shes my mum. Shes lonely. Dont you understand?
A pang of guilt. I didnt argue. He drifted off instantly, but I lay awake for hours, hearing Mrs. Turner rustling about on the other side of the wall.
The next day, she met me after work with a new suggestion.
Hannah, lets do the cleaning together on Saturdays, shall we? Quicker, less strain on you.
I wanted to decline, but shed already fetched the mop and bucket. We scrubbed floors, dusted everything, and she commented the entire time:
Oh, theres muck behind this radiator needs a vacuum. Curtains are filthy, and you really ought to clean the fridge fortnightly, otherwise youll be breeding bacteria.
I nodded and cleaned, my annoyance growing with every tip. But I couldnt be rude. She meant well, after all.
By late September, I realised I felt more like a guest in my own house a clumsy, inadequate, ungrateful guest. Mrs. Turner managed the kitchen, the bathroom, even the laundry. She washed Jacks clothes herself, folding them the way he likes, starching his shirts.
Jack loves his shirts crisp, shed say, smiling fondly. Ive had him tidy since he was a tot.
I did my own laundry when I could get to the machine. Sometimes I felt like a trespasser in my own home, careful not to disturb, to avoid getting in the way.
At night, unsetting dreams flooded in. Wandering endless corridors, trapped out of my own room; standing in the kitchen, reaching for pots and pans that vanished as I touched them.
Id wake gasping, heart racing, and lie there listening to my husbands breathing, wishing I could tell him how suffocating it all felt. But how could I? My mother-in-laws love is smothering me what a ridiculous, ungrateful complaint.
***
In October, things turned truly odd.
One morning I woke with intense nausea, just managing to get to the bathroom. As I retched, I heard Mrs. Turners concerned voice outside the door.
Hannah, are you okay? Should I ring the GP?
No, really, Im fine. Just something I ate, probably.
Something you ate? I made fresh fishcakes last night, checked everything. Jack ate them too!
Its not the fishcakes. My stomachs just a bit delicate sometimes.
The weakness lasted all day. At work, I had trouble focusing, the numbers blurring on the screen. My colleague, Mary, shot me a worried look.
Hannah, you look like death. Go home and rest!
Cant these figures are due in tomorrow.
Nothings worth ruining your health for. At least see your doctor.
I didnt. Back home late, Mrs. Turner was waiting, her face pinched and stern.
Ive been worried all evening. Jack too. Do you realise youre scaring us?
Sorry, works frantic.
Work, always work. What about your home, your family? Poor Jacks spent all evening alone at least I made him a proper dinner.
I closed myself in our bedroom, collapsed onto the bed. My headache pounded. I heard muffled voices Mrs. Turner and Jack, tones of complaint and consolation.
I grabbed my pillow and wanted to scream. But, as usual, I stayed silent.
The next morning, I found my favourite white blouse in the wardrobe now marked with an odd yellow stain at the collar. It had been spotless last night.
Mrs. Turner, do you know what happened to my blouse? I asked in the kitchen.
She turned from the cooker in surprise.
Which blouse, love?
My white one. Its stained now.
I dont touch your things. Maybe you spilled something and forgot?
I looked at her open, innocent eyes and suddenly, I knew she was lying. Shed done it, and she knew.
But there was no proof, so I said nothing. I put on another top and left for work, my chest heavy with dread.
The oddities piled up. My treasured ceramic mug, a birthday gift from Jack, vanished. Never found again. Mrs. Turner just shrugged.
Didnt you break it and forget? I havent seen it.
Then my shampoo a nearly full bottle disappeared overnight. Again, Mrs. Turner shrugged:
Must have leaked. Those lids arent reliable.
I stopped asking questions. I performed my work mindlessly by day and hunched over my laptop in the kitchen at night, avoiding the spare room. Jack became tense, brooding; we started snapping over small things.
Hannah, youve been so touchy lately, he said one night. Is it work?
No. Not work.
Then what?
I wanted to tell him the truth how his mothers endless presence was squeezing the life out of me. But the words clogged in my throat.
Just tired. Sorry.
He hugged me and kissed my temple.
Hang in there. Mumll go soon, her repairs are nearly done.
But each week, Mrs. Turner called her builders, returning with the same worried expression.
Theyre nearly there just the wallpaper and skirting left. Another week, they say.
Those weeks melted into months.
***
By late October, I could hardly sleep at all. The sleep I managed was shallow and filled with anxious dreams, so I woke up feeling shattered. Shadows grew under my eyes, my hands shook.
One night I woke to an odd sound a shuffling, scratching from Mrs. Turners room. I sat up and listened. The shuffling paused, then silence.
Next morning, I asked if shed been up in the night.
No, my dear, I sleep like a log. Why?
I thought I heard something.
You must be dreaming. Youre so nervous, you do need to see your doctor.
A few days later, a strange smell filled the flat. Sweet and waxy like a church. I traced it; it was strongest outside Mrs. Turners door.
Are you burning candles, Mrs. Turner? I asked her that evening.
Candles? No. Why on earth would I?
I keep smelling wax.
Probably the neighbours. The smells always drift through these old vents.
But the scent crept back, always at night faint, but unmistakable. It woke me up sometimes and Id lie tense, fear slowly closing in around my throat.
Once, when Mrs. Turner was out shopping, I slipped into the spare room to investigate. Everything looked normal the divan, a stack of magazines, the violets on the windowsill. I opened the wardrobe. Her clothes hung neatly; at the bottom sat her suitcase and that cardboard box, tied up with string.
I crouched and reached for the box just as I heard the front door open. Hurriedly, I fled to the hall. Mrs. Turner breezed in with her shopping bags.
You finished early, love? Thought youd still be at work.
Felt a bit ill. Came home early.
Oh, darling. Go rest, Ill make you a cuppa.
That night, the waxy scent returned. And later, walking to the loo, I spotted our photo in its frame, which was supposed to be on our chest of drawers. It was now on the hall shelf. I picked it up, peering carefully. The glass was fine, but my face on the picture was laced with thin, fine scratches as if scored with a needle.
Blood thundered in my ears. I stood frozen, clutching the frame, unable to look away.
Hannah, love, what are you staring at? Jack called, coming out of our room, yawning.
Jack… look at this.
He picked up the frame, frowning.
Whats this?
My face. See? Not the glass. The photo.
How strange. Maybe it was a printing error? Old printers sometimes mess up…
This isnt a misprint! Somebody took a needle and
Who? he was baffled. Who would?
I fell silent. We both knew who else lived here. But to say it aloud felt unthinkable. Mad.
Sorry, Im probably mistaken.
I slept not a wink that night, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for more shuffling through the wall.
***
November brought biting cold. I always felt chilly, huddling in a wool cardigan even indoors, but the cold seemed to come from inside. My nausea worsened eating was a struggle. I drank tea and nibbled dry toast when Mrs. Turner wasnt looking.
Hannah, you look truly ill, she said with open concern, but in her gaze, I sensed something else satisfaction?
At work, my boss called me in with a kind but firm look.
Hannah, you keep making mistakes in the accounts. Yesterday you mixed up the figures, the day before you entered the wrong date. Its not like you.
Sorry, Mrs. Wilson. Wont happen again.
Are you sure youre well? Maybe you need some time off?
Time off. The idea of sitting in the flat all day, with Mrs. Turner in every corner, filled me with dread.
No, thank you. Ill be alright.
But I was far from alright. I drifted through my days in a fog, haunted in the evenings, sitting in the kitchen staring into space. Jack tried to reach out, but I only managed monosyllabic answers. He grew distant, frustrated.
Hannah, I feel like youre vanishing from me. Are you here at all?
Sorry. Just tired.
Why wont you eat? Mum says you pick at your dinners.
Mum says. I looked at him sharply.
Your mum always has something to say.
What?
Never mind. Doesnt matter.
I left the room. Jack didnt follow.
Then, one evening, the fragile balance shattered completely.
I got home early, about six. Mrs. Turner would usually be glued to her soaps or on the phone with her friends around then. But the flat was dead quiet.
I took off my coat, washed my hands, and then heard it a low, droning whisper coming from her room.
I froze, listening. Unintelligible words, chanted in a strange monotone, like like a prayer, but not.
I tiptoed down the hallway. The door was ajar. Candlelight flickered inside, revealing the edge of the table. Thick church candles, two of them, burning with yellow flames.
My heart beat so loudly I could hear it. I pushed open the door.
Mrs. Turner stood with her back to me, hunched over the table. In front of her lay a photo of Jack a big one, from graduation. Next to it was a photo of me. My face was crossed out in thick black pen.
She was moving her hand over the photos, muttering, a sewing needle glinting in her fingers. She leaned forward and brought the needle to my picture.
Mrs. Turner, I croaked, my voice alien to my ears.
She wheeled around. Her face was ashen, eyes wide.
Hannah… I didnt expect
What are you doing?
She quickly dropped the needle, looking flustered, then annoyed.
Its nothing to do with you.
Candles. Photos. What is this?
I said, its none of your concern! Get out of my room!
Something inside me snapped. Everything pent up all the exhaustion, the resentment, the fear exploded in a single wave.
Your room? I stepped forward, hands shaking. This is MY flat! Mine! And you have been living in MY room for three months! Three months!
Hannah, keep your voice down
No! I wont! You you burn candles, scratch my photos, ruin my things, and poison my life!
Ive not ruined anything! she stood tall now, eyes full of cold anger. Youre the one causing trouble! Youre making my son unhappy! He could have a real family by now if it wasnt for you! Youre not a wife youre holding him back!
Her words struck me like a slap. I stood there, panting, tears burning my eyes.
How dare you…
I dare, because Im his mother! I raised him single-handedly! I gave everything to him! And who are you? Just someone who took him away!
Jack and I love each other! Were a family!
Family? she sneered. What sort of family? You cant even give him a child. Look at yourself skinny and sickly. Youre not good enough for him.
Something finally broke. I strode to the table and swept the candles to the floor. One went out, but the other rolled and kept burning. I snatched up my crossed-out photo, tearing it to pieces.
Get out, I said, my voice low but steady. Get out of my flat. Now.
What? she blanched. You cant throw me out!
I can! This is my home, and I want you gone. Pack up and leave.
Jack will never forgive this!
Thats between Jack and me. But youre not staying another night!
Just then the front door slammed. Jack had come home, and hearing the shouting, came running.
Whats going on?
Mrs. Turner rushed to him.
Jack, shes throwing me out! Insulting me, chucking me out onto the street!
Jack looked at his mother, then at me trembling, clutching my destroyed photograph, tears streaming down my face.
Jack, look. Just look, I said, showing him the candles, snapped photos and the needle. He stared in shock, his expression cycling from confusion, through realisation, to horror.
Mum… what is this?
Nothing, love, just… prayers for you, thats all…
With a needle? And scribbled photos? Mum, what on earth?
I wanted to help! Shes not right for you, I can see it!
Enough! he roared. Mrs. Turner recoiled so did I. I had never heard him shout at her. Just stop!
He pulled her suitcase from the wardrobe and flung it onto the bed.
Pack your things. Ill take you to the station myself. Now.
Jack…
Now, I said.
***
Within the hour, Mrs. Turner was leaving. She packed up in silence, face set and stony. Jack helped her, not speaking. I stood in the hallway, pressed to the wall, utterly wrung out.
Finally, at the door, she stopped and threw me a long, heavy look.
Youll regret this, she muttered.
I said nothing. Jack took the bags and left. Mrs. Turner followed. The door shut behind them.
I was left alone.
The silence pressed in on me. I walked to the spare room. Wax drips scarred the table. Photos lay torn; candles sprawled across the floor. I gathered everything and dumped it on the balcony, into the bin.
Then I flung open a window, letting in the cold November air. I stood there, gazing at the dark sky, the rain-slick rooftops and, for the first time in ages, felt I could breathe deeply again.
Jack came home after midnight, worn out. He fell onto the bed in our room.
Shes gone. I put her on the train back to York.
I sat down beside him, taking his hand.
Im sorry.
For what?
For all of it. For how it ended.
No, I should be the one apologising. I didnt see, or maybe didnt want to. Thought you were just tired, just stressed with work. I never imagined…
He covered his face with his hands.
Shes lost it. I had no idea she was capable of this.
Jack, shes lonely. She lost your dad. Youre all she has.
Its no excuse. What she did… its unforgivable.
We sat together in the quiet. Then Jack drew me into his arms, and I realised he was trembling.
I was scared Id lose you. You felt so far away lately, so strange. I thought youd stopped loving me.
I was just… suffocating.
You wont suffocate again. I promise.
The next morning was surreal. Sunlight sliced through the curtains. I got up and listened: silence. No footsteps, no pots clattering in the kitchen, no Mrs. Turner humming.
I wandered through the flat and opened the door to the spare room. Empty except for the sofa bed, the desk. My room again.
In the kitchen, Jack was making coffee.
Morning.
Morning.
We had breakfast together in quiet, but it was peaceful. I ate toast with butter and, for the first time in weeks, felt no queasiness.
Hannah, you really do need to see a doctor, said Jack. You look so worn out. Shall I book something?
Alright.
He rang up the GP and made me an appointment. I went into work, oddly lighter. Not normal, but as if some great heaviness had lifted at last.
That evening, as we sat together on the sofa, Jack put his arm around me.
Ive been thinking about my mum. She hasnt called.
Do you think shes angry?
No doubt. But… I cant just cut her out forever. Shes still my mum. But I wont let her come between us ever again.
When things settle, she can visit. As a guest for the day. But shes never living here again. Thats my one boundary.
Thats fair.
And I wont leave the baby with her alone, not at first. Not unless she really changes.
I agree, completely.
We sat in quiet, listening to the steady patter of rain outside. I looked over at him.
Do you think well manage? With a baby, the family, your mum…
We will. Because were together, and we know what we dont want to repeat.
I nodded, feeling stronger than I had in ages. I had said no. Taken back my space, my home, my right to be myself.
Jack, I said, laying my hand on my stomach, where our child was growing. Promise me, if it ever gets like this again, youll listen. You wont pretend its all fine.
I promise. Ill listen. Always.
