Out of my house! I shouted at my motherinlaw, as she began her familiar tirade again.
The only thing I had ever truly feared in my life was the wrath of that woman, the same woman I had once been married to. In that regard, I suppose I was lucky. My first husband, Tom, had grown up in a London orphanage and knew no parents. Our marriage lasted a mere five years before I filed for divorce. I was still at university when we wed. After a year, Tom fell into drink, racked up debts, and his obligations began to spill over onto me. I abandoned my studies to work and pay off what he owed.
I had signed up for a lifetime of troubles with that marriage. When the papers were signed and the divorce finalised, I exhaled a breath of relief. At last, the trouble seemed to have ended.
For two years I lingered alone, nursing my wounds, gathering myself piece by piece. Then I met Robert, a solitary man who had never been married nor had any serious romance. Everything moved quickly. He proposed, I whispered yes, and we went to meet his mother.
The moment we stepped over the threshold of the modest cottage in the Cotswolds, I saw the sour line of Mrs. Whitakers face. She tossed me a curt Hello and slipped into another room. At first I could not discern what was wrongperhaps something about my dress or my demeanor. No, I was modestly attired, yet the silence at the kitchen table pressed on me. My motherinlaw stared, her gaze a cold blade. As my cheeks flushed, she snapped.
So, youre here without any qualifications? she sneered, a thin grin of contempt curling her lips. I hesitated, then answered calmly, sipping my tea.
Yes, my education is unfinished. Life simply unfolded in a way that I never completed my degree, but I intend to finish it one day.
Mrs. Whitaker huffed loudly.
Intend, you say? And when you become a wife, what then? When will you raise children, cook for your man, and keep the house spotless? Youre a proper little princess. She laughed again, took another sip, and set the cup down with a clink. Let me tell you something, my son doesnt need a virgin like you at all.
Looking at you, youre average in looks and figure, and you have no sense whatsoever. In that instant I felt the sting of humiliation. I rose from the table, fled to the bathroom, and broke into tears. A stranger had insulted me without cause, and my husband said nothing. We left the house in a hurry.
I swore never to set foot there again. Yet Mrs. Whitaker kept finding her way to our home, each visit a fresh assault, each word a fresh wound.
I even consulted a psychologist to learn what to do. After a few sessions, it became clear she was a classic manipulator and I was a victim because I had let her demean me. The next time she began her tirade, I told her in a voice that echoed like a distant bell, Leave my house.
We no longer see each other, and I care little for the breach. Robert has nothing to say about it, and I have learned to guard the doors of my mind as tightly as those of my home.
