**Diary Entry, November 15th**
*»Your place is at my feet, servant!»* my mother-in-law used to say. After her stroke, I hired a carera woman shed despised her entire life.
*»Youve moved my frying pan again, Katie?»*
Margaret Hardcastles voice cut through the air like a blade. It clung to the kitchen walls, seeped into the wooden countertop, even seemed to dull the pattern on the tiles.
Katie turned slowly from the sink, wiping her hands on her apron. The panheavy, cast iron, Margarets relicsat on the farthest burner, exactly where shed placed it that morning. In the only *correct* spot, according to her.
*»I didnt touch it, Margaret.»*
*»Didnt touch it? Then who did? The ghost?»* Margarets lips twisted into a smirk, her sharp gaze sweeping the room. *My* kitchen, once my refuge, now a battleground where I lost every skirmish.
Her suffocating order ruled here. Jars no longer lined up by label, but by heightlike soldiers on parade. Tea towels hung not on hooks but slung over the oven handle, a petty torture that chipped at my sanity. A meticulous, stifling chaos disguised as perfection.
*»I only asked a question,»* Margaret said, biting into a cucumber with deliberate loudness. *»In my own home, I assume Im allowed to ask.»*
*»My own home.»* A phrase I heard ten times a day. Never mind that the flat belonged to Oliver, my husband. *Our* flat. But Margaret carried herself like the lady of some ancestral estate, with us as mere tenants.
I stayed silent. Arguing was like banging my head against a wall. I turned back to the dishes. The water murmured, washing away soap sudsand my unshed tears.
Oliver came home that evening. Husband. Son. He kissed his mothers cheek, then brushed his lips absently against my hair.
*»Dead on my feet. Whats for dinner?»*
*»Roast chicken and potatoes,»* I said without looking up.
*»Again?»* Margaret chimed in from her perch on the stool. *»Oliver, love, Ive told youyou need proper meat. She feeds you like youre made of air. Youll waste away!»*
Oliver sighed and retreated to the living room. He never intervened. His stance was simple: *»Sort it out yourselves, women.»* He saw no warjust trivial squabbles between two people he *supposedly* loved equally.
Later, when we were alone, Margaret cornered me. Her expensive perfume mixed with something heavierdominance.
*»Listen, girl,»* she hissed, low enough for Oliver to miss. *»Youre nothing here. Just an appendage to my son. An incubator for my future grandchildren, no more.»*
She snatched a napkin, wiping a nonexistent stain.
*»Remember this: your place is at my feet. Youre a servant. Nothing more.»*
Then her face contorted. Her right lip sagged. The napkin slipped from her hand. She swayedthen slumped to the floor.
At the hospital, the sterile air reeked of other peoples grief. Oliver sat with his head in his hands.
*»A stroke. Doctor says shell need full-time care. Right sides paralysed.»*
He looked up, red-eyedbut not with pain. Only irritation, and cold calculation.
*»Katie, I cant do this. Work, you know. Its on you now. Youre her daughter-in-law. Your duty.»*
He said it like passing a baton in a race hed quit.
Hed visit. Oversee. But the drudgery? That was mine.
I stared at him and feltnothing. No hurt, no anger. Just emptiness. A scorched field.
I nodded.
Back home, in the hollowed-out kitchen, I watched through the window. In the courtyard, Veronica from the fifth floor played with her little girl, Lilylaughing, carefree. The same Veronica Margaret had loathed for her short skirts, her *»brazen»* smile.
I studied her a long moment. Then a plan, cold and precise, took shape.
I dialled her number.
*»Veronica? Its Katie. I need a carer for my mother-in-law.»*
Margaret returned a week later, wheelchair-bound, wrapped in a blanket. Her right side useless, her speech slurredbut her eyes? Still sharp. Still full of venom.
When Veronica walked in, those eyes flared with recognition. Hatred.
*»Good afternoon, Margaret,»* Veronica beamed, disarmingly sweet. *»Ill be looking after you.»*
Margaret gurgled, her good hand clenching.
*»Katie, give us a moment,»* Veronica said. *»Well get acquainted.»*
I didnt eavesdrop. The imagined scene was enough.
Veronica was perfect. Immune to hatred. She flung the window open.
*»Fresh air! Lets air out your dungeon.»*
Then she turned on the radiopop music, the kind Margaret called *»racket.»* She spoon-fed soup while Margaret thrashed, dribbling down her chin.
*»Oh dear, like a toddler! Messy? Ill just change you. No trouble at all.»*
Oliver visited evenings. Margaret transformedeyes pleading, moaning at Veronica.
*»Mum, dont fret,»* hed say, avoiding the carers gaze. *»Veronicas good. Shell care for you.»*
Hed stay half an hour, then leaverelieved.
I watched. Paid Veronica. Gave quiet instructions:
*»Rearrange her photos today. Add lilies. She hates their smell.»*
Veronica obliged with gusto. Moved furniture. Read romance novels aloud. Once, she brought Lily, who giggled, touching Margarets porcelain figurinesher *sacred* collection.
Margaret writhed. Silent tears streaked her face. She looked at mepleading. For the first time ever.
I met her gaze, cool.
*»Veronica, mind Lily doesnt break anything.»*
Revenge tasted better served by anothers hand.
The turning point came unexpectedly. Veronica, *»tidying»* the wardrobe, knocked down a wooden box. Out spilled yellowed letters, photosand a thick journal.
*»Katie, look,»* Veronica called. *»Weve struck gold.»*
Margaret wailed. I picked up the journal.
That night, I read.
It wasnt the Margaret I knew. It was young *Maggie*in love with Andrew, a test pilot. Devastated when he died. Pregnant, alone. A son born, named Andrew. Dead at two during a flu outbreak. *»The sky took my husband. The earth, my son.»*
Years of poverty followed. A meek second husband, Olivers father. Olivers birthher last hope. Her terror hed grow weak like his father. Her harshness meant to *»toughen him.»*
*»I wanted a warrior. I got Oliver.»*
She wrote of envyof those who laughed freely, like the girl from the fifth floor. She hated them for lives unbroken.
I read all night.
At dawn, I handed the journal to Veronica.
*»Read it.»*
She did, sitting on the bench outside. When she returned, her face was grave.
*»Christ. Poor woman. Doesnt excuse her, though.»*
*»No,»* I agreed. *»But Im done. Revenge feels hollow. Like kicking a broken thing.»*
Everything changed. Veronica stopped the radio. Played old records Maggie had mentioned. Found a book of Keats poetry. Once, reading aloud, she caught Margaret crying.
I started visiting too. Brought tea. Sat and talked softly.
When Oliver came, he frowned.
*»Whys it so quiet? Mum needs cheering up!»*
*»She needs peace, Oliver,»* I said. *»And a sonnot a visitor.»*
I handed him the journal.
*»Read it. Maybe youll finally meet your mother.»*
He took it and left. Didnt return for two days. When he did, he looked aged.
He stood in Margarets doorway.
*»His name was Andrew, wasnt it? My brother Andrew too?»*
Margaret trembled.
*»I never knew, Mum,»* he whispered. *»I thought you were always hard. You feared Id be weak. And I was. Hid behind you. Behind Katie. Just drifted.»* He took her hand. *»Forgive me.»*
Her fingers squeezed weaklybut knowingly.
Later, Oliver found me in the kitchen.
*»Ive booked her rehab. Ill take her. Pay Veronica. My responsibility. Always shouldve been.»* He hesitated. *»Katie I dont know how to fix this. But I want to try. If youll let me.»*
I studied him. Saw real pain there.
*»Wash your hands,»* I said. *»Grab a board. Youre chopping cucumbers.»*
He pausedthen almost smiled.
**Epilogue**
Two years on.
Autumn light gilded the kitchen. The scent of baked apples and cinnamon hung in the air. I pulled a dish from the oven.
Oliver entered, guiding Margaret. She walked slowly, leaning on a canebut walking. Her speech was clearer now.
*»Mind the step, Mum,»* he murmured.
They sat.
*»Smells lovely,»* Margaret said, eyeing the apples. From her, a true compliment.
I set a plate before her.
*»Help yourself.»*
I hadnt forgiven. Hadnt forgotten a single cruel word. But I understood. Behind every monster, a wounded person. That understanding didnt bring lovebut it brought peace.
Oliver and I werent a fairy tale. We argued. But now, he stayed. Listened. Learned to be more than a sona husband. And soon, a father.
I hadnt told him yet. Id wait for the right momentnot for surprise, but for calm. A new chapter, built from ashes.
I took a baked apple. Warm. Soft.
I hadnt won the war. Id simply survived itand come out whole. Not broken. Not bitter. Just intact.
And for now, that was enough.
**Lesson learned:** Cruelty often breeds from unseen pain. Understanding doesnt erase woundsbut it lets you stop picking at them. Some battles end not with victory, but with the quiet decision to walk away.
