The Silence at Home: How a Sewing Machine Changed a Fate
That morning, Peter left for work as usual. Meanwhile, Anna lingered in the dim bedroom, perched on the edge of the bed as if gathering strength for something important. Instead of heading to the kitchen like always, she made her way to the storeroom. There, with some effort, she shifted the old stepladder and pulled a dusty sewing machine from the top shelf. With a heavy sigh, she carried it into the living room… When Peter returned that evening, he was in for a shock. Dirty dishes in the sink, shirts left in the washer, and Anna—without so much as a glance in his direction—retreated to her room, where the light and music created the air of some odd celebration. Peter stood in the middle of the kitchen, utterly baffled.
“These trouser creases are still crooked,” Peter grumbled, inspecting himself in the mirror with his usual dissatisfaction. “Anna, did you even look when you ironed them? It’s a disaster!”
Anna stood behind him, arms crossed. She could see his expensive navy trousers were perfectly pressed—neat creases, no wrinkles, not a single flaw. But she didn’t argue. This morning ritual of his had long since become routine, and she’d learned to stay quiet.
“The trousers are fine, darling,” she replied softly, careful not to betray her irritation.
“I’m not nitpicking; I’m pointing out mistakes!” he snapped. “Is it really so hard to do things properly? Am I asking for the impossible?”
He gave himself one last critical once-over, grabbed his briefcase, and tossed out, “Fine, it’ll do. Big meeting today—I’ll be back late.” With a quick peck on Anna’s cheek, he was out the door, slamming it behind him.
Anna switched off the hallway light and sank onto the stool by the shoe rack. These quiet thirty minutes were her daily refuge—the only time she let herself wallow in bitter thoughts about her life. Where had she gone wrong? How had it come to this?
Anna and Peter had met at university. She studied history, dreaming of becoming a teacher; he studied engineering. Their love had been the kind written about in books—pure, penniless, but full of hope. It gave them the courage to marry despite their empty pockets and modest student grants. Their parents couldn’t help—both families were barely scraping by.
There was no proper wedding—just a registry office signing. What little money their parents gave went towards a bed and small comforts for their cramped dorm room. The only “dowry” Anna had was her grandmother’s old sewing machine. She hadn’t had the heart to refuse it, even though she’d had no time to sew. The machine sat on the windowsill, gathering dust under a faded tea towel.
In their final year, Peter landed a job at a construction firm. He quickly climbed from junior engineer to manager, while Anna started teaching at a local school. Her history lessons were lively and engaging—she adored the children and dreamed of having her own, hoping to become a mother soon.
“Why rush?” Peter would dampen her enthusiasm. “We can’t even turn around in this shoebox, let alone raise a child.”
By then, they’d moved to a one-bedroom flat, and Peter had traded public transport for a secondhand saloon car.
“What do you even see in that school?” he’d scoff. “The house is a mess, you’re gone all day, and then you’re buried under marking. I’ve said it before—stay home, keep house. When things are in order, we’ll talk about children.”
Anna managed everything: cleaning, cooking, laundry. But nothing was ever good enough for Peter. She left for work before him, so breakfast was cold by the time he ate. There was never time for elaborate meals, so reheated soup or yesterday’s meatballs earned a grimace. He demanded freshly ironed shirts every morning, but Anna only ironed once a week. His complaints grew louder, his criticisms sharper.
“When are you going to quit and start properly looking after your husband and home?” he’d demand. “Your salary’s useless—we don’t even need it.”
After three years, Anna gave in. She left the school, deciding to devote herself to the house—or rather, to Peter, since children never came. By then, Peter had landed a high-ranking role at a new firm and often worked late at home.
“A child, Anna?” he’d snap. “It’ll scream, keep us awake, disrupt my work. Do you want me sacked? You don’t even work—everything’s on me!”
The house became Anna’s battlefield. She cleaned daily, cooked elaborate meals Peter insisted be served fresh. He despised takeaway, forbidding deliveries. She spent hours hunting new recipes, honing her skills, but Peter always found fault—underseasoned, overspiced, the meat too tough.
At first, she argued back. Soon, she stopped. There was no point—he was never satisfied.
“These meatballs are better than last time,” he’d say, “but the seasoning’s off.”
“I’ll try different spices next time. What would you like?”
“How should I know? You’re the homemaker—figure it out.”
Once, they’d discussed his work, his projects, and Anna had offered thoughtful advice. Now, meals passed in silence. Peter scrolled through his phone, then disappeared into his study. They lived in a spacious flat, but Anna called it empty—just like her heart.
Grandmother’s sewing machine moved with them from flat to flat. Peter often threatened to toss it, but Anna wouldn’t budge:
“You don’t even sew—what’s the point?” he’d grumble.
“It’s memories. 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, this was the one hill Anna would die on. Peter would shrug but drop it.
…That morning, after Peter left, Anna sat in the dark for a long time before decisively heading to the storeroom. Dragging out the machine and an old bag of patterns, she found a length of cotton fabric bought years ago for a nightgown but never used. Spreading it before the mirror, she noted how the deep emerald brought out her chestnut hair. And then, she began to create.
That evening, Peter came home to no dinner. He froze in the doorway—dirty dishes, damp shirts, and Anna, ignoring him entirely, locked in her room with music blaring and lights blazing.
He started to protest, but Anna didn’t even turn around. She sewed, utterly absorbed. First for herself, then for friends. Soon, she bought a new machine, enrolled in online sewing courses, devouring every lesson. She kept the house tidy, but Peter seethed at her new passion.
At first, he mocked her work, made snide remarks. Then, he grew furious. He waited for Anna to “get it out of her system” and return to her old life. But she left—not sewing, but him. Quietly, without drama, just as she’d lived with him all these years.
Anna rented a tiny flat in a quiet corner of Lewes. Sunlit and cosy, it was perfect for sewing. Peter tried to win her back—calls, letters, visits. But Anna held firm. She was tired of living for him, forgetting herself.
Peter, certain she’d come to her senses, didn’t beg for long. The divorce was swift, but he insisted she sign away everything. She did, silently, then stepped into the October mist, as if it swallowed her past. With nowhere to go, she ducked into the first café she saw.
“Rotten weather, but don’t let it get you down,” smiled the barista. “Try our new raspberry tart—guaranteed to cheer you up!”
“I got divorced today,” Anna replied, smiling properly for the first time in years. “Consider this my second birthday. I’ll take that tart.”
Emotions long dormant stirred awake. She ordered a vanilla latte and an extravagant slice of cake. As she ate, she gazed through the window, where a shop sign flickered through the fog. Squinting, she made out: *Fabrics*. And beside it—*Help Wanted. Urgent!*
Finishing her coffee, she headed inside. The shop was small but bright, bursting with fabrics in colours she’d never seen before.
“Hello, are you still hiring?” she asked the woman at the till.
“We are,” the woman sighed. “But not just standing around—helping customers, knowing your cottons from your linens.”
“I sew. I know my stuff,” Anna said firmly.
Unbuttoning her coat, she showed off the blouse and skirt she’d made.
“Not bad,” the woman said, intrigued. “I’m Eleanor. Owner. And you?”
“Anna.”
Anna worked there for years before opening her own atelier next door. She and Eleanor became friends, building a thriving business. The atelier grew, Anna hired assistants, and her name became known in Lewes. Orders—and money—poured in.
Then she met Michael. Their love was quiet but real.Before long, they welcomed a daughter, and Anna realized—as she tucked her children into beds lined with handmade quilts—that happiness had always been a stitch away.
