The woman from the alterations shop called while I was standing outside the library, trying to find enough signal to check my email.

“I’m sorry you’ve withdrawn,” she said. “We were looking forward to meeting you.”

I shifted my sewing portfolio beneath my arm.

“I haven’t withdrawn.”

There was a pause.

“Your father-in-law answered the number on your application. He said you’d decided to stay home.”

For a moment, all I could hear was a bus struggling up the hill.

I had put the house number down as a backup because mobile reception barely reached the village. It had seemed such a small, sensible decision.

“What time was the interview?” I asked.

“Tomorrow. Ten.”

“I’ll be there.”

Nine months earlier, my husband, Owen, and I had moved into his parents’ farmhouse after the printing company where he worked closed without warning. My small income repairing clothes couldn’t cover our rent.

His father, Malcolm, made the offer over Sunday lunch.

“No rent. Get yourselves straight.”

His mother, Irene, squeezed my hand.

“We’ve plenty of room, Tess.”

At first, I believed we were lucky.

I cooked because Irene’s wrists hurt. I drove Malcolm to appointments because Owen had found warehouse work on the early shift. When relatives visited, I changed beds and made breakfast.

Gradually, every favor became my responsibility.

Malcolm began leaving shopping lists beside my plate. Irene invited neighbors for lunch without mentioning it until they arrived. My sewing machine stayed folded beneath our bed because its noise disturbed Malcolm’s afternoon television.

Whenever I brought it out, he asked the same question.

“Still playing with that?”

I had spent six years learning how to fit a jacket properly. Somehow, under his roof, it had become a childish hobby.

Owen hated conflict. He could soothe an angry delivery driver or persuade a frightened dog out from beneath a car, but around his father he became fourteen again.

“He means well,” he would tell me.

By the time I reached home from the library, I knew exactly how our next conversation would go unless I changed it.

Malcolm was in the conservatory, sorting seed packets.

“Did the alterations shop call yesterday?”

He didn’t look up.

“Woman did, yes.”

“And you told her I wasn’t interested?”

“You can’t manage a proper job with everything going on here.”

I stood still.

“What exactly is going on here?”

He waved toward the house.

“Your mother-in-law needs help.”

From the kitchen came the sharp clink of a cup against its saucer.

Irene appeared in the doorway.

“My wrists hurt,” she said quietly. “I’m not helpless.”

Malcolm frowned at her, then at me.

“We put a roof over your heads. I’d expect a little consideration.”

For months, that sentence would have ended the discussion.

This time, I took out my phone and called Owen.

“Come home after work,” I said. “We need to talk about what living here costs.”

That evening, I told him about the call.

He stared at his father.

“You turned down an interview for her?”

“I saved everyone an argument.”

“No,” Owen said, though his voice was barely audible. “You caused one.”

Malcolm pushed back his chair.

Then Owen said something that made me turn toward him.

“We have enough for a deposit.”

I had been putting nearly all my earnings into our savings account. According to Owen, we were still months away.

“How long?” I asked.

He rubbed his palms against his trousers.

“Since August.”

It was October.

After losing his job, he admitted, he’d become terrified of signing another lease. Here, there was always food in the fridge and someone else responsible for the bills.

“I kept thinking one more month would make me feel ready.”

While he waited to feel safe, I had become useful enough that nobody wanted me to leave.

I slept in the spare room that night. The next morning, I went to the interview.

I got the job.

Finding somewhere to live took three weeks. During those weeks, Owen arranged viewings, checked the lease, and worked out a budget with me sitting beside him. I needed to see what he would do after the difficult conversation was over.

We rented a flat above a pharmacy. The kitchen window faced a brick wall, and our secondhand sofa had one sunken cushion.

Before moving day, Irene knocked on our bedroom door.

She held the folding table from her unused craft room.

“For your machine,” she said. “If you’d like it.”

I accepted.

Malcolm didn’t help us move. He stood by the gate, saying nothing, while Owen loaded the final box.

Then he asked who would drive him to his appointment on Thursday.

Owen closed the boot.

“I can take you after work. You’ll need to change the time.”

Six months later, Irene came to our flat for tea.

She brought a skirt that needed shortening and asked what I charged.

I gave her the family discount.

While she tried it on, Owen washed the cups. I sat at my table by the window, finishing a customer’s jacket, with nobody asking when I would put my work away.