Your place is at my feet, servant! hissed the mother-in-law. After her stroke, I hired her a carerthe very woman shed despised all her life.
Have you moved my frying pan again, Katie?
The voice of Margaret Whitmore, my mother-in-law, cut through the air like a blade. It seeped into the kitchen walls, soaked into the wooden countertop, and even the pattern on the tiles seemed to dull beneath its weight.
Katie turned slowly from the sink, drying her hands on her apron. The frying pana heavy, cast-iron relic of Margaretssat on the farthest burner, exactly where she had placed it that morning. The only *correct* place, in her eyes.
I didnt touch it, Margaret.
Didnt touch it? Then who did? The house fairy? Margarets lips twisted into a smirk, her piercing gaze sweeping the kitchen. *Katies* kitchen, once hers alone, now a battleground where she lost skirmish after skirmish.
Everywhere, an oppressive order reigned. The jars of spices stood not in the alphabetical arrangement Katie preferred, but by heightlike soldiers on parade. Tea towels werent hung on hooks but draped over the oven handle, a small, suffocating chaos masquerading as perfection.
I only asked, Margaret said, plucking a cucumber from a plate and crunching it loudly. In my own home, I assume Im allowed to ask.
*Her own home.* Those words rang in Katies ears ten times a day. Never mind that the flat belonged to Oliver, her husband. *Their* flat. Yet Margaret carried herself as though this were her ancestral estate, and they mere tenants.
Katie stayed silent. Arguing was like banging her head against a wall. She returned to the dishes. The water murmured as it washed away the soap sudsand her unshed tears.
That evening, Oliver came home. The son. The husband. He kissed his mothers cheek, then brushed his lips absently against Katies hair.
Dead on my feet. Whats for dinner?
Roast chicken and potatoes, Katie answered without looking up.
Again? Margaret interjected from her perch on the stool. Oliver, darling, Ive told youyou need proper meat. She feeds you nothing but scraps. Youll waste away.
Oliver sighed and retreated to the living room. He never intervened. His stance was simple and convenient: *Your womens squabbles. Sort them out yourselves.* He saw no waronly petty domestic spats between two women he supposedly loved equally.
Later, when they were alone in the kitchen, Margaret stepped close. She smelled of expensive perfume and something heavierauthority.
Listen to me, girl, she hissed, low enough that Oliver wouldnt hear. Youre nobody here. Just an appendage to my son. An incubator for my future grandchildren, nothing more.
She plucked a napkin and wiped a phantom stain.
Remember this always: your place is at my feet. Youre a servant. Nothing else.
And in that moment, her face twisted strangely. The right corner of her mouth sagged. Her hand, still clutching the napkin, went slack. Margaret swayed, then slid slowly to the floor.
The hospital corridor reeked of antiseptic and other peoples grief. Oliver sat with his head in his hands.
A stroke, he muttered. The doctor says shell need full-time care now. Her right sides paralyzed.
He lifted red-rimmed eyes to Katie. There was no pain in themonly irritation and cold calculation.
Katie, I cant do this. Work, you know. Itll have to be you. Youre the wifeits your duty.
He spoke as though passing her a baton in a race hed just dropped out of.
He would visit. Supervise. But the daily drudgery would fall on her.
Katie looked at him and felt nothing. No pity. No anger. Only emptiness. A scorched field.
She nodded.
Back home, in the hollowed-out kitchen, Katie stepped to the window. Outside, on the playground, Veronica from the fifth floor played with her little girl.
Young, loud, the kind of woman Margaret had loathed with a venomous hatredfor her laughter, her short skirts, her *audacity*.
Katie watched her for a long time. Then, a plan took shape in her mind. Cold. Precise. Cruel. She pulled out her phone and scrolled to Veronicas number.
Veronica? Its Katie. I need a carer for my mother-in-law.
Margaret arrived a week later, hunched in a wheelchair, a blanket over her lap. Her right side was useless, her speech a slur, but her eyes
Her eyes were the same. Sharp. Commanding. Full of undiminished spite.
When Veronica walked in, those eyes flared with a fury that could have set the curtains ablaze. She recognized her.
Good afternoon, Margaret, Veronica said with her most disarming smile. Im Veronica. Ill be looking after you now.
Margaret made a guttural, snarling sound. Her left hand clenched into a fist.
Katie, could you give us a moment? Veronica asked sweetly. We should get acquainted.
Katie left without a word. She didnt eavesdrop. The imagining was enough.
Veronica was the perfect weapon. Immune to hatred.
First, she flung open the window. Fresh air! Lets air out this dungeon.
Then, she turned on the radio. Pop musicthe kind Margaret called *brainless drivel*. Margaret sputtered, eyes wild, but Veronica just smiled.
You like it? I do too. Makes chores fly by!
She spoon-fed Margaret soup, ignoring feeble attempts to push her away.
Oh, dont be a baby. Spill, and Ill change you. I dont mind.
Oliver visited in the evenings. By then, Margaret transformedher eyes pools of tragedy. She clutched at him, muttering, gesturing at Veronica.
Mum, dont fuss, Oliver said, avoiding Veronicas gaze. Shes good. Shell take care of you.
He brought oranges, stayed half an hour, then leftexhaling relief on the stairwell.
Katie watched from the sidelines. She barely entered Margarets room. Just handed Veronica money and brief instructions.
Move the photos on her dresser today. And put lilies in the vase. She hates the smell.
Veronica obliged with gusto. Rearranged furniture. Read romance novels aloud. Once, she brought her daughter, Emily, who laughed and touched Margarets porcelain figurinessacred relics.
Margaret screamed silently. Tears of helplessness rolled down her cheeks. She looked at Katie, pleadingfor the first time in her life, *pleading*.
Katie met her gaze coolly.
Veronica, make sure Emily doesnt break anything.
Revenge was a dish served by anothers hands.
The end came unexpectedly. One day, while Veronica tidied the wardrobe, a wooden box tumbled from the top shelf.
Letters. Photos. A thick journal.
Katie, Veronica called. Weve found treasure.
Margaret waileda sound of pure grief.
The journal was Margarets. Not the tyrants. Young Margarets.
She wrote of her first loveAndrew, a test pilot. His death. Of being widowed, seven months pregnant.
She named her son Andrew. At two, he died in a flu outbreak.
*The sky took my husband. The earth took my son.*
Years of poverty followed. A second marriageto Olivers father, weak and passive. Olivers birthher last hope.
And fear. Terror hed be as spineless as his father. So she hardened him with cruelty.
*I wanted to raise a warrior. Instead, I got Oliver.*
She wrote of envy. Of women who laughed too loudly. She hated themnot for their joy, but because shed lost hers.
Katie read all night.
At dawn, she handed the journal to Veronica.
Veronica sat on a bench, reading. When she returned, her face was solemn.
Horrible, she whispered. But it doesnt excuse her.
No, Katie agreed. But I cant do this anymore. Revenge is pointless. Like kicking a broken thing.
From then, everything changed.
No more pop music. Instead, Veronica played old recordssongs from the journal. Found a book of Keatss poetry.
At first, Margaret resisted. Then, one day, a tear rolled down her cheek.
Katie began visiting. Bringing tea. Talking softly.
When Oliver came, he barely recognized the flat.
No music? Mum needs cheering up!
She needs peace, Katie said. And a son. Not a visitor. A *son*.
She handed him the journal.
Read it. Maybe youll finally know who she really is.
Oliver left with it. Didnt return for two days. When he did, he looked older.
He stood in the hallway a long time before entering Margarets room. Katie heard his voice, quiet.
His name was Andrew, wasnt it? My brother Andrew too?
Margaret flinched.
I never knew, Mum. I thought you were always strong. He laughed bitterly. You feared Id be weak. And I was. Hid behind you. Behind Katie. Just drifted. Forgive me.
Margaret squeezed his handweakly, but deliberately.
Later, Oliver found Katie in the kitchen.
Ive booked rehab. Ill take her. Pay Veronica myself. Its my responsibility. He hesitated. Katie I dont know how to fix this. But I want to try. If youll let me.
She looked at him. Saw real pain.
Wash your hands, she said calmly. And get the other chopping board. Youre on cucumber duty.
For a second, he froze. Then, the ghost of a smile.
**Epilogue**
Two years later.
Autumn light gilded the kitchen. The scent of baked apples and cinnamon hung in the air. Katie pulled a dish from the oven.
Oliver entered, steadying Margaret. She walked slowly, leaning on a cane, but she walked. Her speech was still slow, but clear.
Mind the step, Mum.
They sat.
Smells lovely, Margaret said, eyeing the apples. A genuine compliment.
Katie set a plate before her.
Help yourself.
She hadnt forgiven. Hadnt forgotten a single word. But she understood. Behind every monster, a wounded person. That understanding didnt bring lovebut it brought peace.
Her marriage wasnt a fairy tale. They argued. But now, Oliver stayed. Listened. Tried.
He was learningto be a son. A husband. And soon, a father.
Katie hadnt told him yet. She waited for the right momentnot for surprise, but for calm. For the life they were building anew.
She took a baked apple. Warm. Soft.
She hadnt won the war.
She had survived itand emerged whole. And that was enough.
