«Your place is at my feet, servant!» my mother-in-law would hiss. After her stroke, I hired her a carera woman she’d despised all her life.
«Have you moved my frying pan again, Katie?»
Margaret Huntingtons voice sliced through the kitchen air like a blade. It clung to the walls, seeped into the grain of the countertop, and even the floral tile pattern seemed to dull under its weight.
Katie turned slowly from the sink, drying her hands on her apron. The panheavy, cast iron, Margarets prized relicsat on the farthest burner, exactly where shed placed it that morning. The only *correct* place, in her eyes.
«I havent touched it, Margaret.»
«Liar. Then who did? The bloody house fairy?» Margarets lips twisted into a smirk, her sharp gaze sweeping the room. Katies kitchen, once hers, had become a battleground where she lost skirmish after skirmish.
Everywhere, an oppressive order reigned. The jars of rice and pasta stood not alphabetically, as Katie preferred, but by heightlike soldiers on parade. Tea towels werent hung on hooks but draped over the oven handle, a petty torment. A stifling, meticulous chaos disguised as perfection.
«I merely asked a question,» Margaret said, plucking a cucumber from a plate and crunching loudly. «In *my* home, I believe Im entitled to that much.»
*My home.* The phrase echoed daily, though the flat belonged to my husband, Oliver. *Our* home. Yet Margaret carried herself as if it were her ancestral estate, and we mere tenants.
Katie stayed silent. Arguing was like bashing her head against a brick wall. She returned to washing dishes, the water murmuring as it carried away soap sudsand her unshed tears.
Oliver arrived that evening. The son. The husband. He kissed his mothers cheek, then brushed his lips perfunctorily against Katies hair.
«Dead on my feet. Whats for dinner?»
«Roast chicken and potatoes,» Katie answered without turning.
«Again?» Margaret cut in from her perch on the stool. «Oliver, darling, Ive told youyou need proper meat. Shes feeding you scraps. Youll waste away.»
Oliver sighed and trudged to the bedroom. He never intervened. His stance was simple, convenient: *Sort it out yourselves.* To him, it wasnt warjust womens squabbles.
Later, when they were alone, Margaret cornered Katie. Her expensive perfume couldnt mask something darker, hungrier.
«Listen, girl,» she hissed, low enough that Oliver wouldnt hear. «Youre nothing here. An accessory to my son. An incubator for my grandchildren, at best.»
She plucked a napkin, wiped a nonexistent smudge.
«Remember this: your place is at my feet. Youre the help. Nothing more.»
Thenher face twisted. The right side of her mouth sagged. Her hand, still clutching the napkin, went limp. She swayed, then crumpled to the floor.
The hospital corridor reeked of antiseptic and shared grief. Oliver sat with his head in his hands.
«Stroke. Doctor says shell need full-time care. Right sides paralyzed.»
When he looked up, his red-rimmed eyes held no painjust irritation, cold calculation.
«Katie, I cant do this. Work, you know. Its on you now. Youre the wife. Its your duty.»
As if handing off a baton in a race hed quit.
Hed visit. Supervise. But the daily drudgery? Hers.
Katie stared at him and feltnothing. No pity, no hurt. Just emptiness. A scorched field.
She nodded.
Back home, in the hollowed-out kitchen, Katie stood by the window. Below, on the playground, Veronicatheir neighbor from the fifth floorchased her little girl, Emily.
Young, loud, the woman Margaret had loathed for her laughter, her short skirts, her «cheeky grin.»
Katie watched her for a long time. Then, cold clarity settled in. She dialed.
«Veronica? I need a carer for my mother-in-law.»
Margaret arrived a week later, wheelchair-bound, a blanket draped over her lap. Her right side was useless, her speech slurredbut her eyes?
The same. Sharp, commanding, brimming with venom.
When Veronica walked in, those eyes flared. Recognition. Hatred.
«Good afternoon, Margaret,» Veronica chirped, all sunshine. «Ill be looking after you.»
Margaret made a guttural noise. Her good hand clenched.
«Katie, give us a moment,» Veronica said sweetly.
Katie left. She didnt eavesdrop. The imagining was enough.
Veronica was flawless. Immune to hatred.
First, she flung the window wide.
«Fresh air! Lets air out this dungeon, shall we?»
Then, pop music blaredthe «racket» Margaret despised. She thrashed, sputtered. Veronica beamed.
«Love this song! Makes chores fly by!»
She spoon-fed her, ignoring Margarets feeble swats. Soup dribbled down her chin.
«Tsk, tsk. Like a toddler. Make a mess, and Ill change you. No bother.»
Oliver visited evenings. Margaret transformedeyes pleading, fingers clutching at him, muttering accusations.
«Mum, dont fret,» hed say, avoiding Veronicas gaze. «Shes good people. Shell take care of you.»
Hed bring oranges, stay half an hour, then flee.
Katie watched. She rarely entered Margarets room. Just handed Veronica money and brief orders:
«Rearrange the photos on her dresser today. And liliesshe hates lilies.»
Veronica obliged with gusto. She moved furniture, read romance novels aloud. Once, she brought Emily, who giggled, touching Margarets prized porcelain figurines.
Margaret shook silently, tears tracking her cheeks. She looked at Katiepleading. For the first time ever.
Katie met her gaze, cool.
«Veronica, mind Emily doesnt break anything.»
Revenge was a dish best served by anothers hand.
The reckoning came unexpectedly.
Veronica, «tidying» the wardrobe, dislodged a wooden box. Letters, photos, a thick journal spilled out.
«Katie,» Veronica called. «Think we struck gold.»
Margaret moanedraw, broken.
The journal was young Margarets. Not the tyrant, but Vala girl in love with a test pilot named Andrew, whose death shattered her. Pregnant, widowed, then her firstborn, also 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. Oliverher last hope.
*»I wanted to raise a warrior. Instead, I got Oliver.»*
She wrote of envyof women who laughed loudly, like the girl from the fifth floor. She hated them for living lightly, while her life was a wound.
Katie read all night.
At dawn, she handed the journal to Veronica.
«Read it.»
Veronica did, on a park bench. When she returned, her face was grave.
«Christ. The poor woman. But Katieit doesnt excuse her.»
«No,» Katie agreed. «But Im done. Revenge is pointless. Like kicking a broken thing.»
Everything changed.
No more pop musicVeronica played old records, songs from the journal. She dug out a book of Keats poetry. At first, Margaret resisted. Then, one evening, a tear slipped free.
Katie began visiting too. Bringing tea, chatting softly.
When Oliver came, he frowned.
«Why the silence? Mum needs cheering up!»
«She needs peace, Oliver,» Katie said. «And a son. Not a visitor.»
She handed him the journal.
«Read it. Meet your mother.»
He left with it. Didnt return for two days. When he did, he looked years older.
At Margarets door, he hesitated.
«His name was Andrew, wasnt it? My brother Andrew too?»
Margaret flinched.
«I never knew, Mum. I thought you were always strong.» His smile was bitter. «You feared Id be weak. And I was. Hiding behind you. Behind Katie. Forgive me.»
Margarets hand tightenedweak, but deliberate.
Later, Oliver stood in the kitchen.
«Ive booked rehab. Ill take her. Pay Veronica myself. Its my responsibility. Always was.» He paused. «Katie I dont know how to fix this. But I want to try. If youll let me.»
She studied him. Real pain, for once.
«Wash your hands,» she said. «Then chop the cucumbers.»
For a heartbeat, he froze. Thenalmost a smile.
**Epilogue**
Two years later.
Autumn light gilded the kitchen. The air smelled of baked apples and cinnamon. Katie pulled a dish from the oven.
Oliver entered, guiding Margaret. She walked slowly, leaning on a canebut walking. Her speech, though measured, was clear.
«Mind the step, Mum,» Oliver murmured.
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 slight.
But she understood. Behind every monster was a wounded person. That brought no lovejust peace.
Her marriage wasnt a fairy tale. They argued. But Oliver stayed now. Listened. Learned to be more than a sona husband.
And soon, a father.
Katie hadnt told him yet. Shed wait for the right momentnot as a surprise, but as a quiet fact. A piece of their mending life.
She took an apple from the tray. Warm. Soft.
She hadnt won the war.
Shed survived itand emerged unbroken. Not kind, not vengeful. Just whole.
And that was enough.
