Youre not the lady of the houseyoure the servant, the voice of Mrs. Margaret Whitaker, my motherinlaw, floated over the kitchen like honeyed vinegar, sweet at the tongue but scorching beneath the skin.
I nodded silently, cradling the almost empty salad bowl. The lady, my husband Simons thirdcousinonceremoved, fixed me with a glare that resembled a fly buzzing irremovably around ones head.
I slipped through the kitchen, a ghost in the morning light, because today was Simons birthdaywell, his familys birthday, celebrated in my flat, the flat whose rent I paid.
Laughter rippled from the sitting room in jagged waves: the deep bass of Uncle Jeremy, the shrill bark of his wife, and above it all the commanding timbre of Mrs. Whitaker. Simon must have been perched in a corner, smiling like a painted smile, nodding timidly.
I filled the bowl, arranging a sprig of dill as if it were a tiny flag. My hands moved on autopilot, while a single number spun in my head: twenty. Twenty million.
The night before, after the final email confirmation, I had crouched on the bathroom floor, hidden from prying eyes, watching the screen glow. The project I had shepherded for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, nearhopeless attemptshad collapsed into a single figure on the display. Seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you getting stuck? Mrs. Whitaker snapped, impatient. The guests are waiting!
I carried the bowl back into the hall. The party was in full swing.
Youre as slow as a snail, Blythe, Aunt Margaret teased, pushing her plate aside. Just a turtle.
Simon flinched, but said nothing. He never liked a scene.
I placed the salad on the table. Mrs. Whitaker, adjusting the immaculate setting, announced loudly enough for every ear:
Not everyone can be fleetfooted. Working in an office is not the same as running a household. There you sit at a computerand go home. Here you must think, hustle, scramble.
She swept a triumphant gaze over the guests, all of them nodding. Heat rose in my cheeks.
Reaching for an empty glass, I brushed a fork. It clanged and fell to the floor.
Silence. For a heartbeat, everyone froze, eyes locked on the fallen utensil and then on me.
Mrs. Whitaker burst into a harsh, venomous laugh.
See? I told you! Her hands are claws.
She turned to the woman beside her, voice unchanged in pitch, and added with a sneer:
Ive always said to Simon, shes no match for you. In this house youre the master, and she just background décor. Bring, fetch. Not the lady the servant.
Laughter swelled again, more malicious than before. Simon averted his gaze, pretending to be busy with a napkin.
And I I lifted the fork, stood straight, and for the first time that evening allowed a genuine smile to unfurlno rehearsed politeness, just real.
They could not have imagined the world theyd built on my patience was about to crumble. My own world was only just beginning.
My smile knocked them off balance. Their giggles snapped off as abruptly as they had begun; Mrs. Whitakers jaw hung open in stunned silence.
I didnt set the fork back down. Instead I drifted to the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, grabbed a clean glass and poured myself a measure of cherry juicethe very nectar my motherinlaw dismissed as a frivolous indulgence.
Glass in hand, I returned to the lounge, taking the only vacant seat beside Simon. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Blythe, the hot soup cools! Mrs. Whitaker snapped, her voice again tinged with steel. You must serve the guests.
Simon can manage, I said, sipping, eyes never leaving hers. Hes the master of the house. Let him prove it.
All eyes shot to Simon. He paled, then flushed, his stare flitting between me and his mother in a pleading dance.
I yes, of course, he stammered, stumbling toward the kitchen.
A tiny, sweet victory settled over the room, making the air thick as honey.
Realising a direct assault had failed, Mrs. Whitaker shifted tactics, talking of the summer cottage.
Were heading to the cottage in July, the whole family. A month as usual. Fresh air.
Blythe, you should start packing next week, move the preserves, get the house ready.
She spoke as if the decision had been made ages ago, as if my opinion were nonexistent.
I set my glass down slowly.
Sounds lovely, Mrs. Whitaker, but I have other plans this summer.
My words hung like ice cubes on a hot day.
What other plans? Simon returned, balancing a tray of crooked plates. What nonsense are you talking about?
His voice trembled with irritation and confusion. My refusal sounded to him like a declaration of war.
Im buying a new flat, I said calmly, first to him, then to his mother, whose stare hardened with fury.
Why? How will you afford it? A thirtyyear mortgage? Spend your whole life behind concrete walls?
Moms right, Bly, Simon chimed in, eager for support, slamming the tray down so that sauce splashed the tablecloth.
Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scanned the faces around the room; each wore a look of contempt, as if I were a vacancy that had suddenly assumed importance.
Why a mortgage? I asked, softening my smile. I dont like debt. Im paying cash.
Uncle Jeremy, who had been silent, snorted.
An inheritance, perhaps? Some American millionaire aunt died?
Laughter bubbled again. They imagined me bluffing.
It could be said that way, I replied, turning to him. Except the old lady is me, and Im still alive.
I took a sip of juice, letting the silence settle.
Yesterday I sold my project. The one you all thought kept me chained to an office. The startup I built for three years. The deal was twenty million pounds. The money is already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flatmaybe even a seaside cottageto make sure Im never cramped again.
A ringing hush fell over the room. Faces stretched, smiles vanished, replaced by shock and bewilderment.
Simon stared, his mouth agape, making no sound.
Mrs. Whitakers colour drained as her mask crumbled.
I rose, grabbed my handbag from the chair.
Simon, happy birthday. Heres my gift. Im moving out tomorrow. You and your family have a week to find a new place. Im selling this flat too.
I headed for the door. No sound reached my back; they were frozen.
At the threshold I turned once more, voice firm and calm.
And, Mrs. Whitaker, the servant is tired and wants a rest.
Six months later, I was perched on the wide windowsill of my new flat in Brighton, the city lights flickering like a living organism outside the floortoceiling windows. The night breathed in rhythm with my own.
In my hand was a glass of cherry juice. On my lap lay a laptop, open to blueprints of a new architectural app that had already attracted its first investors.
Work was still hard, but now it filled me instead of draining me. For the first time in years I breathed fully. The constant tension that had clung to me for so long faded. I no longer whispered, moved cautiously, guessed moods. The feeling of being a guest in my own home vanished.
After that birthday, Simons phone never stopped ringing. He went through the full spectrumfrom furious threats (Youll regret this! Youre nothing without me!) to nightly voice notes sobbing about how good things used to be. Listening, I felt only a cold void. His good rested on my silence. The divorce was swift; he never demanded anything.
Mrs. Whitaker kept calling, demanding justice, shouting that I had robbed her son. Once she tried to grab my arm outside the business centre where I rented an office. I simply walked around her, saying nothing. Her power ended where my patience ran out.
Sometimes, in a strange nostalgic haze, Id glance at Simons social media. Hed moved back to his parents housethe same drab room, the same carpet on the wall, his face etched with perpetual resentment, as if the whole world were to blame for his failed life.
No more guests. No more celebrations.
A few weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I got a message from an unknown number:
Bly, hi. Its Simon. Mum wants a salad recipe. Says she cant get it right.
I stopped in the street, read it several times, then laughednot with malice, but genuine amusement. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our saga. They had tried to destroy my family, to ruin me, and now they wanted a tasty salad.
I looked at my screen. In this new life, filled with interesting projects, respectful people, and quiet happiness, there was no room for old grudges or stale recipes. I blocked the number without hesitation, as one would sweep away a stray dust mote.
Then I took a big swallow of cherry juicesweet, with a faint bite. It tasted of freedom, and it was beautiful.
