In the quiet village of Kent, nestled among rolling green hills, I recall the days when my husband’s mother, Mrs. Whitmore, would make my life a misery. It has been two years since I wed her son, Thomas, and from the very first, she made it plain I was not the match she had hoped for. In her eyes, Thomas deserved a lady of finer breeding, and she spared no effort to remind me of my shortcomings.
At first, I bore her sharp words with patience, brushing them aside like dust from an old rug. But as time wore on, her remarks grew crueller, her disapproval more pointed. No matter how diligently I kept the house or how warmly I greeted her, it was never enough. Thomas knew well what passed between us, yet he would only say, “Give it time, Eleanor. Shell come round. Shes good at heart, really.”
Then came that fateful Sunday morn. I was roused from sleep by an icy delugeMrs. Whitmore had emptied a bucket of water over me, her voice sharp as a blade. “Up with you, idler!” she snapped. I gasped, drenched and bewildered, my heart pounding. When I dared ask why she had done such a thing, she drew herself up like a queen passing judgment. “In this house, we rise with the sun! None of this lazing about till noon!”
I glanced at the clockhalf past six. My hands shook as I clutched the sodden sheets. “Its my only day to rest,” I said, my voice tight with anger.
She snorted. “Rest? While you live beneath my roof, youll abide by my rules!”
That was the moment I knewI would endure no more.
When I told Thomas all that had happened, my voice was steady, though my heart ached. I spoke of the humiliation, the relentless unkindness, how a mother should nurture, not torment. I did not ask him to forsake heronly to stand with me, to mark the line she must not cross.
He was silent a long while. Then, at last, he met my gaze and said, “Youre right, Eleanor. Its you and I together now. Well make our own way.”
And so we left that house, its shadows and spite behind us, and began anew.
