In the shadow of the Jasmine tree: Breaking free from a toxic family
In the decaying splendour of Eyrevale Manor, Elara battles toxic parents, rekindles forbidden love, and questions whether she can escape the chains of her upbringing. Under a canopy of jasmine, secrets are shared, hearts break, and truths unravel. Set in an enchanting town, this story examines love, loss, and the painful pursuit of self-discovery.
What happens when home feels like a battleground?
No one warns you how heavy a homecoming can feel when the word home means nothing to you.
If there is one universal truth, it is this: not all homes are sanctuaries. For some, they are labyrinths of unspoken grudges, passive-aggressive remarks, and familial obligations wrapped in barbed wire. My story, dear reader, begins in the sweltering heat of Eyrevale—a coastal town so humid it could curdle your very thoughts. And for me, Eyrevale wasn’t just oppressive because of its climate. No, it was the family home that truly choked me.
I am Elara Maes, reluctantly returning to the house that birthed both my dreams and my nightmares. The Maes Manor was less a home and more a mausoleum of decayed grandeur: its walls once whispered of wealth but now groaned under peeling wallpaper, a chandelier missing its crystals, and furniture that smelled faintly of damp sorrow.
The ivy that clung to its walls had turned feral, snaking into broken windowpanes. The wrought-iron gates creaked like old bones as they swung open. For a moment, I imagined turning back, but a voice in my head—perhaps my own stubborn pride—urged me forward.
The front door opened before I could knock. My mother, Claudine, stood there, every inch the matriarch, her cerulean dress crisp and her hair sculpted into perfection.
“Elara,” she said, her smile as taut as the bun pulling her face upwards.
“Mother,” I replied, my tone flat.
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Maes Manor
Maes Manor, perched at the edge of Eyrevale’s mangrove forest, was as much a monument to its former glory as it was to its decay. Built in the late 1800s, it was a sprawling estate of grey stone with arches that seemed to whisper of faded grandeur. The exterior, carved meticulously with floral motifs and gargoyle sentinels, was overrun by ivy and moss, a testament to its slow surrender to time.
The central courtyard, once vibrant with rose bushes and fountains, was now a wilderness of tangled weeds. A single cracked fountain stood in the centre, its cherubic statue missing an arm. The verandas, lined with fluted columns, had once been pristine but were now marred by grime and cracks.
Inside, the house unfolded into a maze of high-ceilinged rooms, each more oppressive than the last. The drawing room, with its velvet-upholstered sofas and a piano that hadn’t been tuned in decades, reeked of stale air. Heavy drapes covered the tall windows, blocking out much of the sunlight.
The library was my father’s domain, a cavernous room lined with oak bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling. The smell of leather-bound books and pipe smoke lingered like a ghost. A large fireplace dominated one wall, its mantle cluttered with brass candelabras and framed photographs that seemed too pristine to be sincere.
Upstairs, the bedrooms bore the weight of memories both bitter and sweet. Mine was a small corner room with a bay window that overlooked the jasmine tree. It had once been a sanctuary, though now it felt like a tomb for the girl I used to be.
The manor was a character in its own right—silent but complicit in the dysfunction it had harboured for generations.
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What does a dinner of words taste like?
The summons had come under the guise of celebration: my parents’ 30th wedding anniversary.
“Oh, how marvellous,” my mother, Claudine, had written in her sharp cursive. “We will celebrate as a family, won’t we? You must come home, dear Elara. Your father insists.”
“Insists” was code for “commands”—a concept Dorian Maes had perfected over decades of fatherhood. My mother’s letters always left out the nuances: the sighs, the rolling eyes, the subtle digs. But oh, I remembered them well.
Dinner that night was served with a side of hostility. The long mahogany table stretched between us, the vastness amplifying the tension. A golden candelabra flickered weakly, and the shadows it cast seemed alive, whispering secrets I couldn’t quite catch.
Claudine served crab cakes with a flourish, her painted lips pursed in disapproval. “I made your favourite,” she said, though we both knew it wasn’t true.
Dorian sat at the head, his presence cold and domineering. He poured himself a glass of whiskey—no doubt the brand he touted as superior to anything I’d ever afford—and took a slow sip, watching me with calculating eyes.
“Elara,” my father began, spearing a buttered crab cake with the precision of a man dissecting an argument. “What is it you do now? Illustrating… children’s books, was it?”
“Yes, Father,” I replied, barely disguising my disdain. “And they have been received quite well, thank you.”
Claudine’s laugh was a tinkle of glass breaking. “Oh, how charming. I am sure it is… fulfilling. Of course, nothing compares to a real career. But we all have different definitions of success.”
And there it was—the verbal knife to my ribs.
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The table groaned with dishes that should have been comforting: a fiery prawn curry that made my tongue rebel, overly rich rice pudding, and a bowl of mango chutney that tasted more of vinegar than fruit. But nothing could distract from the suffocating air. Words ricocheted around the room like poisoned darts. Claudine remarked on my weight; Dorian subtly questioned my intellect. I swallowed my fury along with the spicy curry.
The silence that followed was palpable. Claudine dabbed at her lips with a napkin, her composure cracking for the briefest of moments.
“Must you always be so antagonistic?” she asked. “We have done so much for you, Elara. A little gratitude wouldn’t hurt.”
“Gratitude?” I repeated, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm. “For what? For years of making me feel like I wasn’t good enough? For loving me only when it suited your image of success?”
The jab hit its mark. Claudine’s fork paused mid-air, and her painted lips pursed.
“You have always had a flair for independence,” she said. “But family is family, Elara. At the end of the day, we’re the ones who have been there for you.”
A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Been there? Really? The only thing you have ever been consistent about is pointing out my flaws.”
Dorian set his glass down with a sharp clink. “You have always been dramatic. Perhaps that is why you write. To channel that misplaced energy.”
Can forbidden love bloom in the shadow of jasmine trees?
That night, unable to bear the suffocation of the house, I slipped out into the garden. The jasmine tree stood in full bloom, its branches spreading like a cathedral roof. The scent was intoxicating, both beautiful and oppressive—just like Eyrevale itself.
“Elara,” came a voice I hadn’t heard in years. Finnian.
I turned, and there he was: taller, leaner, but still Finnian. His eyes, the colour of stormy seas, carried the same intensity that had drawn me to him all those years ago. His hands were rough from years of working as a fisherman, and his shirt was carelessly untucked, but to me, he looked like freedom.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” he said, his voice tinged with both hope and hurt.
“Neither was I,” I admitted.
Our conversation flowed as if the years apart had been but minutes. He told me about his art—paintings of the sea and the people of his village, shunned by the likes of my parents. I told him about my books and how each one felt like a small rebellion against the Maes legacy.
And then, under the jasmine canopy, he kissed me. His lips were salty and warm. I tilted my head, his lips brushing mine in the softest, most tender kiss. The world seemed to pause, the oppressive weight of the day momentarily lifted. His kiss deepened, and I found myself pressing closer, desperate to hold onto this moment of clarity, this fleeting escape.
But as he pulled back, the familiar guilt crept in. The weight of my family’s shadow lingered, even in his arms.
Why is it so hard to leave?
Back in my childhood bedroom, I lay awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. They seemed to mirror the fractures in my own soul, each one a reminder of the ways I’d tried—and failed—to break free.
I thought of Finnian’s words: “You don’t owe them anything.” But it didn’t feel that way.
For years, I had believed the Maes mantra: love is transactional. My father’s approval came in fleeting, conditional bursts. My mother’s affection was a performance, one that demanded constant applause. How does one unlearn an entire childhood of feeling like a burden?
What haunts us more—our memories or our futures?
The next day began as all mornings in Eyrevale did: with heavy air and heavier silences. Breakfast was a bleak affair of bitter coffee, overripe bananas, and toast that crumbled like my patience. My father began anew his inquisition.
“What is this I hear about Finnian?” he asked, his tone deceptively mild.
“What about him?” I countered.
“Don’t play coy, Elara. I saw you last night. Have you forgotten what kind of family he comes from?”
“The kind that values kindness over money?” I shot back.
My mother gasped theatrically. “Must you always be so ungrateful?”
And so it began—a storm of accusations, gaslighting, and guilt. My father accused me of selfishness; my mother lamented her failures as a parent. Words I had bottled up for years spilled forth.
“Do you even hear yourselves?” I yelled. “You have spent my whole life tearing me down, and you expect gratitude?”
My father’s face darkened. “If you leave now, don’t bother coming back.”
Childhood flashbacks
Trigger: A comment from Claudine over dinner.
Claudine poured wine into her glass with practised precision, her gaze fixed on me like a hawk’s. “You were always the shy one, Elara. Remember how you used to hide during your piano recitals?”
Her words pulled me back in time.
I was eight, sitting stiffly on the grand piano bench in the drawing room. My fingers trembled over the keys as the guests gathered for another one of my mother’s soirées. “Play something cheerful,” she had instructed earlier, her lips a thin line.
I had played a melancholic piece instead, a song I found comforting.
When the applause died down, Claudine had approached me, her smile razor-sharp. “That was... unconventional. Next time, try to read the room, darling. It is important to bring joy to others, even if it doesn’t suit your mood.”
Her words lingered like the echo of the piano, and for years after, I second-guessed every decision I made.
Another flashback
Trigger: The jasmine tree in the garden.
As the night deepened, I stood beneath the jasmine tree, its fragrance mingling with the salt of my tears. It reminded me of the time my father had caught me climbing it.
I had been eleven, chasing the illusion of freedom among its branches. He had found me perched high up, my dress streaked with dirt.
“Elara Maes, get down this instant!” His voice thundered across the garden.
I had slipped and scraped my knee on the way down, my hands bleeding from the bark. He didn’t ask if I was hurt. Instead, he had dragged me inside and said, “Ladies don’t climb trees. Do you understand what that means?”
At the time, I hadn’t. Now, standing beneath the same tree, I wished I could tell my younger self to keep climbing.
---
The next morning, I confronted my parents. They sat in the drawing room, stiff as statues.
“Why did you ask me to come here?” I demanded.
Claudine exchanged a glance with Dorian. “We missed you,” she said, though the words felt rehearsed.
“No, you didn’t,” I said. “You miss the version of me that played along with your charade. But that is not who I am anymore.”
“Elara,” Dorian said sharply. “Don’t be dramatic.”
I laughed bitterly. “Dramatic? You’ve spent my entire life making me feel like I wasn’t enough. No matter what I did, it was never enough.”
Claudine’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but even her vulnerability felt manipulative. “We only wanted the best for you.”
“Your best was suffocating,” I said, my voice breaking. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be your scapegoat.”
Bond with Finnian
Finnian found me in the garden, sitting beneath the jasmine tree. He carried a small thermos and two cups, the smell of spiced chai wafting through the air.
“Thought you might need this,” he said, handing me a cup.
I smiled faintly. “Do you always come prepared?”
He sat beside me, close enough for our shoulders to touch. “For you? Always.”
I sipped the chai, the warmth spreading through me. “Do you ever feel... stuck?”
He tilted his head, his dark curls brushing his brow. “Stuck how?”
“Like you are carrying someone else’s expectations on your back. Like you are living for everyone but yourself.”
Finnian set his cup down and reached for my hand. His touch was steady, grounding. “I think everyone feels that way sometimes. But not everyone does what you are doing—facing it head-on.”
His words felt like a balm, but they also unraveled something within me. “What if I fail?”
He leaned in, his lips brushing my temple. “Then I will be here to remind you how far you’ve come.”
The distance between us vanished as he pressed his lips to mine. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.
Can freedom ever be truly free?
I packed my bags with trembling hands, the weight of years pressing down on me.I left Maes Manor that afternoon, suitcase in hand. Finnian was waiting for me by the docks, his face a mixture of relief and worry.The wind tousled his hair, and he looked at me like he was memorising every detail.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked as I approached.
"I need to do this for myself,” I said, my voice resolute. He understood. Of course he did. That was the kind of man Finnian was.I needed to find myself before I could belong to anyone else.He pulled me into a kiss, his lips warm against mine. “Do you have to go?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the water. I nodded, tears blurring my vision. “If I stay, I will never be free.”
He reached for my hand, holding it tightly. “Freedom is not always worth the cost.”
“But staying would cost me myself.” I smiled sadly and walked away from him and the manor.
As the boat pulled away, I glanced back at the shrinking silhouette of Eyrevale as lightning split the sky. The jasmine tree, my refuge, was struck. I watched as flames consumed it, a symbolic end to the life I had known.
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It explores the struggles of breaking free from toxic family dynamics and finding your own path, even when it means leaving behind what you’ve always known.Author Bio
Tushar Mangl—Healer and Author of Ardika. Writes on personal finance, Vastu, mental health, food, leisure, and a greener, better society.
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