«Your place is at my feet, servant!» hissed the mother-in-law. After her stroke, I hired her a carera woman she’d despised all her life.
«You moved my frying pan again, didn’t you, Katie?»
The voice of Margaret Whitmore cut through the air like a blade. It seeped into the kitchen walls, clung to the wooden countertop, even made the floral pattern on the tiles seem to dull under its weight.
Katie turned slowly from the sink, drying her hands on her apron. The panheavy, cast iron, Margarets prized possessionsat on the farthest burner, exactly where she had placed it that morning. The only correct place, as far as she was concerned.
«I didnt touch it, Margaret.»
«Didnt touch it? Then who did? The ghost?» Margarets lips twisted into a smirk, her sharp gaze sweeping the kitchen. Katies kitchen, once hers alone, now a battlefield where she lost skirmish after skirmish.
Everything reeked of someone elses rigid order. The jars of spices werent alphabetized, as Katie preferred, but lined up by height like soldiers on parade. Tea towels werent hung on hooks but draped over the oven handle, a small, suffocating chaos disguised as perfection.
«I was only asking,» 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.* Katie heard that phrase ten times a day. Even though the flat belonged to Oliver, her husband. *Their* flat. But Margaret carried herself like the lady of the manor, and they were merely temporary guests.
Katie said nothing. Arguing with her was like banging your head against a brick wall. She turned back to the dishes, the water murmuring as it washed away soap bubblesand her unshed tears.
That evening, Oliver came home. The husband. The son. 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, love, Ive told youyou need proper meat. Shes feeding you scraps. Soon youll waste away.»
Oliver sighed and trudged to the bedroom. He never interfered. His stance was simple and convenient: *Thats womens business. Sort it out yourselves.* He saw no war, only petty squabbles 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 heavierdominance.
«Listen, girl,» she hissed, low enough that Oliver wouldnt hear. «Youre nothing here. Just an appendage to my son. An incubator for my future grandchildren, nothing more.»
She snatched a napkin and wiped at an invisible stain.
«Remember this well: your place is at my feet. Youre a servant, nothing more.»
At that moment, her face twisted strangely. The right corner of her mouth drooped, her hand with the napkin went limp. Margaret swayed, then slid slowly to the floor.
In the hospital corridor, the air smelled sterile and thick with other peoples grief. Oliver sat with his head in his hands.
«A stroke. The doctor says shell need full-time care now. Her right side is paralyzed.»
He lifted his red-rimmed eyes to Katie. There was no pain in themonly irritation and cold calculation.
«Katie, I cant do this. Work, you know. Its on you now. Youre the wifeits your duty.»
He said it like passing her a baton in a race hed just quit.
He would visit. Supervise. But the daily drudgery would be hers.
Katie 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 hollow but now quiet kitchen, Katie stood by the window. Outside, on the playground, VeronicaMargarets most hated neighbourplayed with her little daughter. Young, loud, despised for her short skirts, her laughter, her *audacity*.
Katie watched her for a long time. Then, a plan formed in her mind. Cold, precise, ruthless. She pulled out her phone and found Veronicas number.
«Veronica? Hi. I need a carer for my mother-in-law.»
Margaret was brought home a week later, wrapped in a blanket, half her body useless. Her speech was slurred, but her eyesthose remained the same. Commanding, sharp, brimming with undimmed malice.
When Veronica walked in, those eyes blazed with recognition.
«Good afternoon, Margaret,» Veronica smiled disarmingly. «Im Veronica. Ill be looking after you now.»
Margaret made a guttural sound, her working hand clenching into a fist.
«Katie, could you leave us?» Veronica asked gently. «Your mother-in-law and I should get acquainted.»
Katie obeyed, shutting the door behind her. She didnt eavesdrop. Imagination was enough.
Veronica was the perfect weaponimmune to hatred.
First, she threw open the window.
«Fresh air! Lets air out this dungeon.»
Then, she turned on the radio. Cheerful pop music, the kind Margaret called «racket.» Margaret groaned, rolling her eyes. Veronica spoon-fed her soup, ignoring her feeble attempts to resist.
«Honestly, like a toddler,» she chided lightly. «Make a mess, and Ill change you. No trouble at all.»
Oliver came in the evenings. Margaret transformed for himher eyes welling with tragedy, her hand reaching weakly toward him, her garbled accusations aimed at Veronica.
«Mum, dont fret,» Oliver said, avoiding Veronicas gaze. «Shes good. Shell take care of you.»
He brought oranges, stayed half an hour, then left with palpable relief.
Katie watched from the sidelines. She rarely entered Margarets room. She simply gave Veronica money and brief instructions:
«Today, rearrange the photos on her dresser. And put lilies in the vase. She hates lilies.»
Veronica obeyed with gusto. She moved furniture, read romance novels aloud. Once, she brought her daughter, Emily, who laughed and touched Margarets porcelain figurinesher sacred collection.
Margaret trembled, silent tears streaming down her face. She looked at Katie, pleadingfor the first time ever.
Katie met her gaze coolly.
«Veronica, make sure Emily doesnt break anything,» she said, then left. Revenge was a dish served by anothers hands.
The end came unexpectedly. One day, while «tidying» the wardrobe, Veronica knocked over a wooden box. Out spilled yellowed letters, photos, and a thick notebook.
«Katie, come here,» Veronica called. «Weve struck gold.»
Margaret let out a wail. Katie picked up the notebook. A diary.
That night, she read it cover to cover.
The words inside changed everything. These werent the ramblings of a tyrant, but of a young, heartbroken woman named Maggie.
She wrote of her first love, Thomas, a test pilot she adored. His death. Her devastation. Left alone, seven months pregnant.
She named her son Thomas. Two years later, during a flu outbreak, he died. *»The sky took my husband. The earth took my son.»*
Then came poverty. A second marriageto Olivers father, weak and passive. Olivers birth, her last hope.
And her terror that hed turn out just as feeble. She hardened him with cruelty.
*»I wanted 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 didnt hate them. She hated her own broken life.
Katie read until dawn.
The next morning, she handed the diary to Veronica.
«Read it.»
Veronica sat on the park bench, turning pages. When she returned, her face was grave.
«Horrible,» she whispered. «But, Katieit doesnt excuse her.»
«No,» Katie agreed. «But I cant do this anymore. Revenge feels pointless now. Like kicking something already broken.»
From that day, everything changed. Veronica stopped the radio. Instead, she played old recordssongs mentioned in the diary. She found a book of Keats poetry. At first, Margaret resisted, but once, as Veronica read aloud, a tear slipped down her cheek.
Katie began visiting too, bringing tea, sitting quietly.
When Oliver came home, he frowned.
«Whys it so quiet? Mum needs cheering up!»
«She needs peace, Oliver,» Katie said softly. «And she needs her son. Not a visitor for half an hour. A real son.»
She handed him the diary.
«Read it. Maybe youll finally learn who your mother really is.»
He left with the diary and didnt return that night. Katie didnt call.
Two days later, he reappearedolder, shadows under his eyes. He stood in the hallway a long time before entering Margarets room.
Katie heard his voice, quiet and raw.
«His name was Thomas, wasnt he? And my brother Thomas too?»
Margaret shuddered. Fear flickered in her eyes.
«I never knew, Mum. I thought you were just strong. You spent your life terrified Id be weak. And I was. I hid behind you. Behind Katie. I just floated. Forgive me.»
Margaret squeezed his handweakly, but deliberately.
When Oliver came to the kitchen, Katie was at the stove. He stood beside her.
«Ive booked her rehab. Ill take her. Ill pay Veronica. Its my responsibility. Always was.» He hesitated. «Katie I dont know how to fix this. But I want to try. If youll let me.»
She looked at him. Real pain lived in his eyes now.
«Wash your hands,» she said calmly. «And get the other chopping board. Youre on cucumber duty.»
For a moment, he froze. Then, a faint smile touched his lips.
Epilogue
Two years later.
Autumn light gilded the kitchen, the air sweet with baked apples and cinnamon. Katie pulled a dish from the oven.
Oliver entered, guiding Margaret by the arm. She walked slowly, leaning on a cane, but she walked. Her speech was still slow, but clear.
«Mind the step, Mum,» Oliver said gently.
They sat at the table.
«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 nowthat behind every monster might be a shattered person. That understanding didnt bring love. But it brought peace.
Her marriage wasnt a fairy tale. They were learning to talk again. Sometimes they argued. But now, Oliver stayed. Listened. Tried.
He was learning to be more than a son.
A husband.
And soon, a fatherthough Katie hadnt told him yet. She was waiting for the right moment. Not for a grand reveal, but to say it quietly, like the natural next step in the life they were rebuilding.
Katie picked up a warm, soft apple. She hadnt won the war.
Shed just survived itand come out the other side. Not broken. Not bitter. Just whole.
And for now, that was enough.
