«Your place is at my feet, servant!» snarled the mother-in-law. After her stroke, I hired her a carerthe very woman she had despised all her life.
«Did you move my frying pan again, Katie?»
The voice of Margaret Whitmore, my mother-in-law, sliced through the air like a blade. It scraped against the kitchen walls, soaked into the wooden countertop, and even the patterned tiles seemed to dull under its weight.
Katie slowly turned from the sink, drying her hands on her apron. The panheavy, cast iron, Margarets sacred relichad been left on the farthest hob that morning. Precisely where *she* had placed it. Where it *belonged*.
«I didnt touch it, Margaret.»
«Liar. Then who did? The bloody house ghost?» Margarets lips twisted into a sneer as her sharp gaze swept the kitchenKaties kitchen, now a battlefield where she lost skirmish after skirmish.
Every inch bore the mark of an oppressive, suffocating order. The jars of spices werent arranged 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 that clawed at her composure. A meticulous, choking chaos disguised as perfection.
«I was only asking,» Margaret snapped, plucking a cucumber from a plate and crunching it loudly. «In *my* own home, I believe Im entitled to ask.»
*Her* home. The phrase echoed a dozen times a day. Never mind that the flat belonged to Oliver, her son*their* flat. But Margaret carried herself like the lady of the manor, and they were merely temporary guests.
Katie clenched her jaw and turned back to the dishes. Arguing was like bashing her head against a brick wall. The water trickled softly, washing away soap sudsand the tears she refused to shed.
That evening, Oliver came home. The husband. The son. He kissed his mothers cheek, then brushed his lips absently against Katies hair.
«Exhausted. Whats for dinner?»
«Roast chicken and potatoes,» Katie answered without looking up.
«*Again?*» Margaret cut in from her perch on the stool. «Oliver, love, Ive told youyou need proper meat. She feeds you like a pauper. Youll waste away.»
Oliver sighed and trudged to the bedroom. He never intervened. His stance was simple and convenient: *Womens troubles. Sort it out yourselves.* He never saw the waronly petty squabbles between two women he claimed to love equally.
Later, when they were alone, Margaret stepped close, her expensive perfume laced with something darker. «Listen, girl,» she hissed, low enough that Oliver wouldnt hear. «Youre nothing here. Just an accessory to my son. A broodmare for my future grandchildren, nothing more.»
She snatched a napkin and wiped a nonexistent stain. «Remember this: your place is at my feet. Youre the help. Nothing more.»
And thenher face twisted. The corner of her mouth sagged. Her hand, still clutching the napkin, went limp. Margaret swayed, then slid to the floor.
The hospital corridor reeked of antiseptic and other peoples grief. Oliver sat with his head in his hands.
«Stroke. Doctor says shell need full-time care. Right sides paralyzed.»
He looked up, red-eyednot with pain, but cold calculation.
«Katie, I cant do it. Work, you know. Its on you now. Youre the wife. Its your duty.»
He said it like passing a baton in a race hed just quit.
Hed visit. Supervise. But the daily grind? That was hers.
Katie stared at him and feltnothing. No hurt, no anger. Just emptiness. A scorched field.
She nodded.
Back home, in the hollow, quiet kitchen, Katie stood by the window. Outside, on the playground, Veronicathe neighbour from the fifth floorlaughed with her little girl, Lily.
Young, vibrant, the woman Margaret had loathed with vicious intensity. For her loud laugh, her short skirts, her «cheeky grin.»
Katie watched her. Then, slowly, a plan formedcold, precise, brutal. She pulled out her phone and dialed.
«Veronica? Its Katie. I need a carer for my mother-in-law.»
Margaret was brought home a week later, wheelchair-bound, wrapped in a blanket. Her right side was useless, her speech slurredbut her eyes?
Her eyes were the same. Sharp. Commanding. Full of venom.
When Veronica stepped into the room, those eyes blazed. She recognized her.
«Good afternoon, Mrs. Whitmore,» Veronica beamed, disarmingly sweet. «Im Veronica. Ill be looking after you.»
Margaret made a guttural noise, her good hand clenching into a fist.
«Katie, give us a moment,» Veronica said lightly. «We should get acquainted.»
Katie left without protest. She didnt need to eavesdrop. She could imagine it perfectly.
Veronica was the perfect weaponimmune to hatred.
First, she flung the window open. «Fresh air! Lets air out this dungeon.»
Then, she turned on the radio. Cheery pop musicthe kind Margaret sneered at as «mindless drivel.» The older woman groaned, rolling her eyes. Veronica just smiled. «Lovely, isnt it? Perfect for chores!»
She spoon-fed Margaret soup, ignoring her feeble attempts to resist. «Tsk, such a fussy patient. Make a mess, and Ill change you. I dont mind.»
Oliver visited in the evenings. Margaret transformedeyes pleading, hand trembling as she pointed at Veronica.
«Mother, dont fret,» Oliver said, avoiding the carers gaze. «Veronicas good. Shell take care of you.»
He brought oranges, stayed half an hour, then leftrelief palpable as he stepped onto the landing.
Katie watched from the sidelines. She rarely entered Margarets room now. Just handed Veronica money and brief instructions:
«Rearrange the photos today. And put lilies in the vase. She hates lilies.»
Veronica obliged with relish. She moved furniture. Read romance novels aloud. Once, she brought Lily along. The little girl giggled, touching Margarets porcelain figurinesher prized collection.
Margarets silent scream was almost beautiful. Tears of helplessness rolled down her cheeks. She looked at Katie*begging*. For the first time ever, she *pleaded*.
Katie met her gaze coolly. «Veronica, make sure Lily doesnt break anything.»
Revenge was a dish best served by anothers hands.
The climax came unexpectedly. While «tidying» the wardrobe, Veronica knocked down a heavy wooden box.
Letters, photos, a thick notebook spilled out.
«Katie!» Veronica called. «Weve struck gold.»
Margaret let out a mournful wail. Katie picked up the notebook.
A diary.
That night, she read it cover to cover.
The words shattered everything.
This wasnt the Margaret she knew. This was *Val*young, heartbroken.
She wrote of her first love, Andrew, a test pilotadored, lost. Left widowed, seven months pregnant.
She named her son Andrew. Two years later, the flu took him. *»The sky took my husband. The earth took my son.»*
Years of poverty followed. A second marriageto Olivers father, weak-willed, a marriage of desperation. Olivers birthher last hope.
And her terrorthat hed grow up as spineless as his father. So she hardened him. With cruelty.
*»I wanted to raise a warrior. Instead, I got… Oliver.»*
She wrote of envyfor those who laughed loudly, like the girl from the fifth floor. She didnt hate them. She hated *herself*.
Katie read until dawn.
The next morning, she handed the diary to Veronica. «Read it.»
Veronica sat on the park bench, flipping pages. When she returned, her face was grim.
«Bloody hell,» she breathed. «Poor woman. But Katieit doesnt excuse her.»
«No,» Katie agreed. «But… I cant do this anymore. Revenge feels pointless. Like kicking a broken thing.»
Everything changed.
No more pop music. Veronica played old recordssongs from the diary. She dug out a battered poetry bookYeats, not Margarets taste, but one night, a tear rolled down the old womans cheek.
Katie started visiting too. Bringing tea. Sitting quietly.
When Oliver came home, he froze.
«Whys it so quiet? Mum needs cheering up!»
«She needs peace, Oliver,» Katie said softly. «And she needs her son. Not a visitor. A *son*.»
She handed him the diary. «Read it. Maybe youll finally know who she really is.»
He left with itand didnt return that night. Katie didnt call.
Two days later, he came backolder, shadows under his eyes. He stood in the hallway, then stepped into Margarets room.
«His name was Andrew, wasnt it?» Olivers voice was raw. «My brother… Andrew too?»
Margaret flinched. Fear flickered in her eyes.
«I never knew, Mum. I thought you were always… strong.» He laughed bitterly. «You were afraid Id be weak. And I was. Hiding behind you. Behind Katie. Just… drifting. Im sorry.»
Margaret squeezed his handweakly, but deliberately.
Later, Oliver found Katie in the kitchen.
«Ive booked her rehab. Ill take her. And 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. Saw real pain.
«Wash your hands,» she said calmly. «And get the chopping board. Youre on cucumber duty.»
For a second, 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 by the arm. She walked slowly, leaning on a canebut she walked.
«Mind the step, Mum,» he murmured.
They sat.
«Smells… lovely,» Margaret said haltingly. A genuine compliment.
Katie set a plate before her. «Help yourself.»
She hadnt forgiven. Hadnt forgotten a single cruelty. But she *understood*.
Monsters werent born. They were made.
Oliver and she werent a fairy tale. They argued. But nowhe stayed. Listened. Tried.
He was learningto be a husband. A father.
She hadnt told him yet. Not about the baby. Shed waitnot for drama, but for the right moment.
Katie took a baked apple. Warm. Soft.
She hadnt won the war.
Shed just survived itand come out whole.
And that was enough.
