**Diary Entry 3rd October**
*»Your place is at my feet, servant!»* My mother-in-laws words still echo in my head. After her stroke, I hired a carerVeronica, a woman shed despised her entire life.
*»You moved my frying pan again, Katherine?»*
Margarets voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the kitchen air, clinging to the walls, staining the oak countertop. Even the patterned tiles seemed to dull under its weight.
Katherine turned slowly from the sink, wiping her hands on her apron. The cast-iron panMargarets relicstood untouched on the farthest hob, exactly where shed placed it that morning. *Her* rightful place.
*»I didnt touch it, Margaret.»*
*»Liar. Who else, then? The bloody house elf?»* Margarets lips twisted into a smirk, her piercing gaze sweeping the room*my* kitchen, now a battlefield where I lost skirmish after skirmish.
Everything bore her stifling order. Jars lined not alphabetically, as I preferred, but by heightregimented soldiers on parade. Tea towels hung not on hooks but draped over the oven handle, a petty torment. A suffocating chaos disguised as perfection.
*»I only asked a simple question,»* Margaret said, crunching a cucumber loudly. *»In my own home, Ive every right to ask.»*
*»My own home.»* A phrase I heard a dozen times daily. Never mind that the flat belonged to Oliver*our* home. Yet Margaret ruled it like some ancestral estate, with us as mere tenants.
I said nothing. Arguing was like bashing my head against a brick wall. I turned back to the dishes. The water murmured, washing away soap sudsand my silent tears.
That evening, Oliver returned. The son. The husband. He kissed his mothers cheek, then brushed my hair with absent lips.
*»Dead on my feet. Whats for dinner?»*
*»Roast chicken and potatoes,»* I replied, staring at the stove.
*»Again?»* Margaret piped up from her perch on the stool. *»Ollie, love, you need proper meat. Shes feeding you airyoull waste away!»*
Oliver sighed and vanished into the bedroom. Neutral as Switzerland: *»Sort it out yourselves.»* He saw no warjust petty squabbles between women he *supposedly* loved equally.
Later, Margaret cornered me, reeking of Chanel No. 5 and something darkerpower.
*»Listen, girl,»* she hissed, low enough that Oliver wouldnt hear. *»Youre nothing here. Just an accessory to my son. An incubator for my grandchildren, no more.»*
She wiped a nonexistent smudge with a napkin.
*»Remember your place: at my feet. Youre the help. Nothing more.»*
Thenher face twisted. The right side sagged. Her hand dropped. Slowly, she slid to the floor.
—
The hospital corridor smelled of bleach and other peoples grief. Oliver sat with his head in his hands.
*»Stroke. Doctor says shell need full-time care. Right sides gone.»*
He looked up, red-eyednot with pain, but irritation.
*»Katherine, I cant do this. Work, you know? Its on you now. Duty of a wife, innit?»*
As if handing me a baton in a race hed quit.
Hed visit. Supervise. But the daily grind? Mine.
I felt nothing. No anger, no hurt. Just emptiness. A scorched field.
I nodded.
—
Back home, I stood in the hollow kitchen, now eerily quiet. Through the window, I saw Veronicaour neighbour from flat 5playing with her little girl, Emily.
Young, loud, the woman Margaret had loathed for her short skirts, brash laugh, and *»cheeky look.»*
I watched. And thena plan. Cold. Precise.
I dialled.
*»Veronica? I need a carer for my mother-in-law.»*
—
Margaret returned a week later, wheelchair-bound, swaddled in a blanket. Half her body useless, speech slurredbut her eyes?
Still sharp. Still hateful.
When Veronica walked in, those eyes flared*recognition*.
*»Good afternoon, Margaret,»* Veronica beamed. *»Ill be looking after you.»*
A guttural snarl. Margarets good hand clenched.
*»Katherine, give us a moment,»* Veronica said sweetly.
I leftbut didnt need to eavesdrop. I could *imagine*.
Veronica was perfect. Immune to venom.
She flung the window wide. *»Fresh air! Lets air out your dungeon.»*
Pop music blaredthe *»racket»* Margaret despised. She writhed, eyes rolling. Veronica spoon-fed her puréed soup, undeterred by sputtered protests.
*»Tsk, such a fussy baby! Messy? Ill change you. No bother.»*
Oliver visited evenings. Margaret transformedeyes brimming with tragic woe, clutching his hand, jerking her chin at Veronica.
*»Mum, dont fret,»* Oliver muttered, avoiding Veronicas gaze. *»Shes good people. Shell mind you.»*
Hed stay half an hour, then fleerelieved.
I observed. Paid Veronica. Gave quiet orders:
*»Rearrange her photos today. Add liliesshe hates them.»*
Veronica obligedmoving furniture, reading romance novels aloud. Once, she brought Emily, who giggled, touching Margarets porcelain figurines*sacred* treasures.
Margaret trembled, mute tears falling. She looked at me*pleading*.
First time.
*»Veronica, mind Emily doesnt break anything,»* I said coolly, walking out. Revenge tasted best served by anothers hand.
—
The end came unexpectedly.
Veronica, *»tidying,»* knocked down a wooden box from Margarets wardrobe.
Yellowed letters. Photos. A diary.
*»Katherinelook,»* Veronica called.
Margaret moanedraw, broken.
I read it that night.
Young Margaret*Valerie*had loved a test pilot, Andrew. Lost him. Widowed, seven months pregnant.
Her sonAndrew Jr.died aged two. *»Sky took my husband; earth took my son,»* shed scrawled.
Years of poverty. A meek second husband. Oliverher last hope.
*»I wanted a warrior. Got Oliver.»*
Her envy of others easy liveslike the *»brazen tart from flat 5.»* She hated *them* for her own shattered life.
I understood.
—
Next morning, I handed Veronica the diary.
*»Read it.»*
She didthen exhaled. *»Christ. Poor woman. Doesnt excuse her, though.»*
*»No,»* I agreed. *»But revenge feels hollow now. Like kicking a broken thing.»*
Everything changed.
No more pop music. Insteadold vinyls of songs from the diary. Poetry readings. Once, a tear slid down Margarets cheek.
I started visiting toobringing tea, chatting softly.
When Oliver next came, he frowned.
*»No music? Mum needs cheering up!»*
*»She needs peace, Oliver,»* I said. *»And a proper son. Not a half-hour visitor.»*
I handed him the diary.
*»Meet your mother.»*
—
He returned two days laterhaunted.
Stood in Margarets doorway, voice cracking:
*»His name was Andrew, wasnt it? My brother Andrew too?»*
Margaret flinched.
*»I never knew, Mum. Thought you were always *strong.* You feared Id be weak. And I was. Hid behind you. Behind Katherine. Just floated. Forgive me.»*
Margaret squeezed his hand*faint, but there.*
—
Later, Oliver found me in the kitchen.
*»Ive booked rehab. Ill drive her. Pay Veronica myself. My responsibility. Always was.»* Pause. *»Katherine I dont know how to fix this. But Ill try. If youll let me.»*
I looked at him*real* pain in his eyes.
*»Wash your hands,»* I said. *»Grab the other board. Youre chopping cucumbers.»*
A ghost of a smile.
—
**Epilogue Two Years Later**
Golden autumn light gilded the kitchen. The scent of baked apples and cinnamon hung thick.
Oliver entered, guiding Margaretwalking slowly, cane in hand, but *walking*.
*»Mind the step, Mum.»*
She eyed the apples. *»Smells lovely.»*
I served her first.
*»Enjoy.»*
I hadnt forgiven. Hadnt forgotten. But I understoodmonsters are made, not born. That brought no love, but peace.
Oliver and I werent a fairy tale. We argued. But nowhe stayed. Listened. Learned to be a husband. A future father (though he didnt know yetId tell him when the time was right).
I bit into a warm apple.
I hadnt won the war. Id survived itunbroken. Unbitter. Simply whole.
And that was enough.
**Lesson Learned:**
Hates a fire that burns the holder first. Understanding? Thats the water that lets you walk awaynot unscarred, but free.
