«Your place is at my feet, servant!» sneered the mother-in-law. After her stroke, I hired her a carera woman she had despised all her life.
«Did you move my frying pan again, Kathy?»
The voice of the mother-in-law, Margaret Winthrop, cut through the air like a blade. It dug into the kitchen walls, seeped into the grain of the countertop, even seemed to dull the pattern on the tiles.
Kathy turned slowly from the sink, drying her hands on her apron. The frying panheavy, cast iron, Margarets relicsat on the farthest burner, where she had placed it that morning. The only correct place, in her mind.
«I didnt touch it, Margaret.»
«Didnt touch it? Then who did? The house ghost?» Margarets lips twisted into a smirk, her sharp gaze sweeping the kitchenKathys beloved kitchen, now a battlefield where she lost skirmish after skirmish.
Everywhere, an alien, suffocating order reigned. The jars of grain stood not by alphabet, as Kathy preferred, but by heightlike soldiers on parade. Tea towels werent hung on hooks but draped over the oven handle, a small, smothering chaos disguised as perfection.
«I merely asked a question,» Margaret said, taking a cucumber from the plate and crunching it loudly. «In my own home, I presume I have the right to ask.»
*My own home.* Kathy heard it ten times a day. Though the flat belonged to Oliver, her husband. *Their* flat. But Margaret acted as though it were her ancestral estate, and they merely lodgers.
Kathy stayed silent. Arguing was like banging ones head against a wall. She turned back to washing dishes. The water murmured, rinsing away soap and her unshed tears.
That evening, Oliver arrived. Husband. Son. He kissed his mothers cheek, then brushed his lips perfunctorily over Kathys hair.
«Dead on my feet. Whats for dinner?»
«Roast chicken and potatoes,» Kathy replied without looking up.
«Again?» Margaret cut in from her perch on the stool. «Ollie, darling, Ive told youyou need proper meat. She feeds you scraps. Youll waste away.»
Oliver sighed and retreated to the bedroom. He never interfered. His stance was simple and convenient: *Thats womens business. Sort it yourselves.* He didnt see the waronly petty squabbles between two women he supposedly loved equally.
Later, when they were alone, Margaret stepped close. Her perfume was expensive, layered over something heavier, more domineering.
«Listen, girl,» she hissed, low enough that Oliver wouldnt hear. «Youre nobody here. Just an appendage to my son. A vessel for my future grandchildren, nothing more.»
She snatched a napkin and wiped at an invisible stain.
«Remember this: your place is at my feet. Youre the help. Nothing more.»
At that moment, her face twisted oddly. The right corner of her mouth sagged. Her hand, still clutching the napkin, went limp. She swayed, then slid slowly to the floor.
The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and distant grief. Oliver sat with his head in his hands.
«A stroke. The doctor says shell need constant care. Her right side is paralyzed.»
He looked up at Kathy with red-rimmed eyesno pain in them, just irritation and cold calculation.
«Kathy, I cant do it. Work, you know. Its on you now. Youre the wifeits your duty.»
He spoke as though handing her a baton in a race hed just quit.
He would visit. Oversee. But the daily drudgery would be hers.
Kathy looked at him and felt nothing for the first time in years. No pity, no hurt. Just emptiness. A scorched field.
She nodded.
Back home, in the hollowed-out but now silent kitchen, Kathy stood by the window. In the courtyard below, Veronicatheir neighbor from the fifth floorplayed with her little daughter, Emily.
Young, loud, the very woman Margaret had loathed for her laughter, her short skirts, her *cheeky* grin.
Kathy watched her for a long time. Then, a plan crystallizedcold, precise, cruel. She took out her phone and found Veronicas number.
«Veronica? Hello. I need a carer for my mother-in-law.»
Margaret returned a week later, wheelchair-bound, wrapped in a shawl. Her right side was useless, her speech slurredbut her eyes
Her eyes were the same. Commanding, sharp, brimming with undimmed malice.
When Veronica walked in, those eyes flared like fire catching dry tinder. She recognized her.
«Good afternoon, Margaret,» Veronica beamed disarmingly. «Im Veronica. Ill be looking after you.»
Margaret made a guttural sound. Her left hand clenched.
«Kathy, could you step out?» Veronica asked gently. «Our patient and I should get acquainted.»
Kathy left without a word. She didnt eavesdrop. It was enough to imagine what unfolded behind that door.
Veronica was the perfect instrument. She had a rare gifttotal immunity to hatred.
First, she flung the window wide.
«Fresh air! Lets air out this prison.»
Then, she turned on the radio. Pop musicthe kind Margaret called *racket*. Margaret grunted, eyes rolling. Veronica grinned.
«Lovely, isnt it? Perfect for chores!»
She spoon-fed her, ignoring Margarets feeble attempts to resist. Soup dribbled down her chin, staining her nightgown.
«Tsk, like a toddler,» Veronica chided cheerfully. «Messy? Ill change you. No trouble at all.»
Oliver visited in the evenings. By then, Margaret transformedher eyes pools of sorrow. She clutched at him, jabbering, pointing at Veronica.
«Mum, dont fret,» Oliver soothed, avoiding Veronicas gaze. «Shes good. Shell take care of you.»
He brought oranges, stayed half an hour, then leftexhaling relief on the landing.
Kathy watched from the sidelines. She rarely entered Margarets room. She simply gave Veronica money and brief instructions:
«Rearrange the photos on her dresser today. And add liliesshe hates their smell.»
Veronica obliged with gusto. She moved furniture, read romance novels aloud. Once, she brought Emily. The girl laughed, touching Margarets porcelain figurinesher sacred collection.
Margaret writhed in silent fury. Tears of helplessness streaked her cheeks. She looked at Kathy, who peered in briefly, and in that gaze was a plea. For the first time, she begged her daughter-in-law.
Kathy met her eyes coolly.
«Veronica, make sure Emily doesnt break anything,» she said, then left. Revenge was a dish best served by anothers hand.
The reckoning came unexpectedly. One day, while «tidying» the wardrobe, Veronica knocked down a heavy wooden box.
It spilled yellowed letters, photos, and a thick notebook.
«Kathy, come here,» Veronica called. «Weve struck gold.»
Margaret let out a mournful groan at the sight of the notebook. Kathy picked it up. A diary.
That night, she read it at the kitchen table.
What she found changed everything. The diary wasnt written by the tyrant Margaret, but by a young, lovesick Maggie.
She wrote of her first husband, Andrew, a test pilot shed adored. His death. How shed been left alone, seven months pregnant.
Shed named her son Andrew. Two years later, during a flu outbreak, he died. *»Heaven took my husband, earth my son,»* the shaky script read.
Years of hardship followed. A second husbandOlivers fatherweak-willed, married out of desperation. Olivers birth, her last hope.
And her terror hed grow up as frail as his father. Shed tried to temper him with her harshness.
*»I meant to raise a warrior. Instead, I got Oliver.»*
She wrote of her envyof those who laughed loudly, like the girl from the fifth floor. She hated not them, but her own broken life.
Kathy read all night.
In the morning, she handed the diary to Veronica.
«Read it.»
Veronica sat on the courtyard bench, turning pages. When she returned, her face was grave.
«Horrible. The poor woman. But Kathy it doesnt excuse her.»
«No,» Kathy agreed. «But I cant do this anymore. Revenge feels hollow. Like kicking a broken thing.»
From that day, everything changed. Veronica stopped the radio. Instead, she played old recordssongs from the diary. She found a book of Keats poetry. At first, Margaret resisted. Then, one evening, a tear slid down her cheek.
Kathy began visiting too. She brought tea, sat quietly, spoke of her day.
When Oliver next visited, he frowned.
«No music? Mum needs cheering up!»
«She needs peace, Oliver,» Kathy said softly. *»And she needs her son. Not a visitor, but a son.»*
She handed him the diary.
«Read it. Maybe youll finally meet your mother.»
He left with it and didnt return that night. Kathy didnt call. She simply waited.
He reappeared two days lateraged, shadows under his eyes. He lingered in the hall before entering Margarets room. Kathy heard him whisper:
«His name was Andrew, wasnt it? My brother Andrew too?»
Margaret shuddered. Fear flickered in her eyes.
«I never knew, Mum. I thought you were always so strong,» Oliver said hoarsely. «You feared Id be weak. And I was. Hiding behind you. Behind Kathy. Just drifting. Forgive me.»
Margarets hand tightened weakly around his.
Later, Oliver found Kathy in the kitchen.
«Ive booked rehab. Ill take her myself. And Ill pay Veronica. Its my responsibility. Always shouldve been.» He hesitated. «Kathy I dont know how to fix this. But I want to try. If youll let me.»
She studied him. His eyes held real pain.
«Wash your hands,» she said calmly. «And get the other chopping board. Youre cutting cucumbers.»
For a second, he froze. Then, the ghost of a smile appeared.
**Epilogue**
Two years later, autumn light gilded the kitchen. The air smelled of baked apples and cinnamon. Kathy pulled a dish from the oven.
Oliver entered, supporting Margaret. She walked slowly, leaning on a cane, but she walked. Her speech was still halting, but clear.
«Mind the step, Mum,» Oliver murmured.
They sat.
«Smells lovely,» Margaret said, eyeing the apples. It sounded like a true compliment.
Kathy set a plate before her.
«Help yourself.»
She hadnt forgiven. Hadnt forgotten a single word. But she understood. Behind every monster might lie a wounded soul. That understanding didnt bring lovebut it brought peace.
Her marriage wasnt a fairy tale. They were still learning to talk. Sometimes they argued. But Oliver no longer fledhe stayed, listened, tried. He was learning to be not just a son, but a husband. And a fatherthough Kathy hadnt told him yet. Shed known only a week.
Shed wait for the right momentnot for surprise, but to say it calmly, as part of the new life they were building.
Kathy took a baked apple. It was warm, soft. She hadnt won the war.
Shed simply survived itand emerged whole. Not broken, not bitter. Just intact. And that was enough.
