**Diary Entry**
*»Your place is at my feet, servant!»* Thats what my mother-in-law used to say. After her stroke, I hired her a carerthe very woman shed despised all her life.
*»You moved my frying pan again, Katie?»*
Margarets voiceMargaret Whitmorescut through the air like a blade. It dug into the kitchen walls, seeped into the wooden countertop, even dulled the pattern on the tiles.
Katie turned slowly from the sink, drying her hands on her apron. The pancast iron, a relic from Margarets youthsat on the farthest hob, where *she* had placed it that morning. In *her* rightful spot.
*»I didnt touch it, Margaret.»*
*»Oh? Then who did? The house ghost?»* Her lips twisted into a smirk, her piercing gaze sweeping the room. *Her* kitchen. The battlefield where Katie lost skirmish after skirmish.
Everything bore the mark of Margarets suffocating order. Jars stood not by label, as Katie preferred, but by heightsoldiers on parade. Tea towels draped over the oven handle instead of hooks, a petty torment. A stifling chaos disguised as perfection.
*»I only asked,»* Margaret said, crunching a cucumber loudly. *»In my own home, Im entitled to ask.»*
*Her* home. The flat belonged to Oliverher son, Katies husband. *Their* flat. Yet Margaret ruled it like ancestral land, as if they were mere tenants.
Katie stayed silent. Arguing was like banging your head against a brick wall. She returned to washing up, the water washing away soap and unshed tears.
That evening, Oliver came home. The husband. The son. He kissed his mothers cheek, then brushed Katies hair with a fleeting peck.
*»Exhausted. Whats for dinner?»*
*»Roast chicken and potatoes.»*
*»Again?»* Margaret chimed in from her perch. *»Ollie, darling, you need proper meat. She feeds you like a birdyoull waste away!»*
Oliver sighed and retreated. He never intervened. His stance was simple: *»Womens businesssort it out yourselves.»* He didnt see warjust petty squabbles between two women he *supposedly* loved.
Later, cornered in the kitchen, Margaret loomed over Katie, reeking of Chanel and something darker. *»Listen, girl,»* she hissed. *»Youre nothing here. Just an accessory to my son. An incubator for my grandchildrennothing more.»*
She wiped an invisible smudge with theatrical disgust. *»Remember your placeat my feet. Youre a servant. Nothing else.»*
Then her face twisted. The right side sagged. Her hand dropped. She slid to the floor.
In the hospital corridor, reeking of antiseptic and grief, Oliver rubbed his temples. *»A stroke. Shell need full-time care now.»*
He looked at Katie, eyes red but cold. *»Youll handle it. Youre the wifeits your duty.»*
As if passing a baton in a race hed quit.
Hed visit. Supervise. But the drudgery? Hers.
Katie felt nothing. No anger, no sorrow. Just emptiness. A scorched field.
She nodded.
At home, standing in the now-silent kitchen, she watched through the window. Below, Veronicatheir fifth-floor neighbourplayed with her little girl.
Veronica: loud, bright, the woman Margaret loathed for her laughter, short skirts, and *»cheeky grin.»*
Katie dialled her number. *»Veronica? I need a carer for my mother-in-law.»*
Margaret returned a week later, wheelchair-bound, half-paralysed, words slurredbut her eyes? Still sharp. Still venomous.
When Veronica walked in, those eyes *burned.*
*»Good afternoon, Margaret,»* Veronica beamed. *»Im your new carer.»*
A guttural snarl. Margarets good hand clenched.
*»Katie, give us a moment,»* Veronica said sweetly.
Katie didnt eavesdrop. She didnt need to.
Veronica was perfectimmune to hatred. She flung windows open, blared pop music (*»This bangers great for chores!»*), spoon-fed soup down Margarets chin. *»Messy? Ill change you. No trouble at all.»*
Oliver visited evenings. Margaret transformedeyes pleading, muttering accusations.
*»Mum, relax,»* hed say, avoiding Veronicas gaze. *»Shes lovely. Shell take care of you.»*
Hed leave after thirty minutes, relieved.
Katie watched. Paid Veronica. Gave quiet instructions: *»Move her photos. Liliesshe hates them.»*
Veronica rearranged furniture, read romance novels aloud. Once, she brought her daughter, Emily, who giggled, touching Margarets prized porcelain. Silent tears rolled down Margarets cheeks. She looked at Katie*begged.*
Katie smiled coldly. *»Veronica, mind Emily doesnt break anything.»*
Revenge, served by anothers hands.
Thenthe diary.
Found when a box tumbled from Margarets wardrobe. Yellowed letters. Photos. A journal.
Young Margaret*Valerie*had adored her first husband, Andrew, a test pilot. His death. Their son, *also* Andrew, lost to flu at two. *»Sky took my love; earth took my boy.»*
Years of poverty. A meek second husband. Oliverher last hope. *»I wanted a warrior. I got Oliver.»*
She envied those with easy lives*like that loud girl upstairs.* Hated not them, but her own wrecked fate.
Katie read all night.
Next morning, she handed the diary to Veronica. *»Read it.»*
Veronica sat on a bench, pages trembling. *»Christ. Poor woman. But Katieit doesnt excuse her.»*
*»No,»* Katie agreed. *»But revenge feels hollow now. Like kicking a broken thing.»*
Everything changed.
Veronica swapped pop for old recordssongs from the diary. Read poetry. One day, Margaret cried.
Katie brought tea, sat with her. Spoke softly.
When Oliver next visited, he frowned. *»No music? Mum needs cheering up!»*
*»She needs peace,»* Katie said. *»And her son. Not a half-hour visitor.»*
She gave him the diary. *»Meet your mother.»*
He left. Returned two days later, aged.
*»His name was Andrew, wasnt it?»* he whispered at Margarets bedside. *»My brother Andrew?»*
Margaret trembled.
*»I never knew, Mum. I thought you were always strong.»* He choked. *»You feared Id be weak. And I was. Hiding behind you. Behind Katie. Forgive me.»*
Margaret squeezed his handfaint, but deliberate.
Later, Oliver stood in the kitchen. *»Ill take her to rehab. Pay Veronica. Its my responsibility.»* He swallowed. *»Katie I want to fix this. If youll let me.»*
She handed him a knife. *»Wash your hands. Chop the cucumbers.»*
He almost smiled.
**Epilogue**
Two years later.
Autumn light gilded the kitchen. The scent of baked apples and cinnamon filled the air. Katie pulled a dish from the oven.
Oliver entered, guiding Margaretwalking slowly, leaning on a cane.
*»Careful, Mummind the step.»*
They sat.
*»Smells wonderful,»* Margaret saida genuine compliment.
Katie served her.
She hadnt forgiven. Hadnt forgotten. But she *understood.* Behind every monster: a wounded soul. That understanding didnt bring lovebut peace.
Her marriage wasnt a fairy tale. They argued. But Oliver stayedlistened, tried. Learned to be a husband. Soon, a fatherthough Katie hadnt told him yet. Shed wait for the right moment. Not a surprise, just life.
She took a baked apple. Warm. Soft.
She hadnt won the war.
Shed survived itunbroken, unbitter. Whole.
And that was enough.
