I’m not the lady of the houseyoure merely the help, my motherinlaw, MrsMargaret Whitfield, said, her voice sweet as jam but sharp as a splash of Tabasco, searing with false kindness. I gave a silent nod and lifted the almost empty salad bowl. The lady in questionmy husband Jamess distant aunt Maudshot me a look of irritation, the sort you give a persistent fly that has hovered over your head for ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen as quietly as a shadow, trying not to be seen. It was Jamess birthday, or rather the day his whole family chose to celebrate in my flatthe flat whose rent I paid. Laughter rippled from the sittingroom in jerky bursts: the booming bass of Uncle John, the sharp bark of his wifes terrier, and above it all Margarets voice, confident and almost commanding. James was probably tucked in a corner, smiling stiffly and nodding timidly.
I filled the bowl, topping it with a sprig of dill, my hands moving on autopilot while a single thought churned in my mind: twentytwenty million. The night before, after the final confirmation had landed in my inbox, I had crouched on the bathroom floor, hidden from everyone, staring at the screen. The project I had shepherded for three yearscountless sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears and nearhopeless attemptshad been reduced to one number on the display: seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you stuck? Margaret snapped impatiently. The guests are waiting! I carried the bowl back to the hall; the party was in full swing.
Youre slow as a snail, Emma, Maud drawled, pushing her plate aside. A proper turtle, thats what you are. James flinched but said nothing. He never liked a scene.
I set the salad on the table. Margaret, smoothing the perfect arrangement, raised her voice so everyone could hear: Not everyone is meant to be quick. Working in an office isnt the same as running a household. There you sit at a computer and go home. Here you must think, hustle, and bustle. She swept the guests with a victorious glance, and they all nodded. My cheeks flushed.
Reaching for an empty glass, I brushed a fork, which clanged to the floor.
Silence fell. For a heartbeat everyone froze, eyes darting from the fork to me.
Margaret burst out laughingloud, harsh, venomous. See? I told you! Your hands are useless. She turned to the woman beside her, her tone dripping with sarcasm: I always said to James, she isnt his equal. In this house you are the master, and she merely décor. Bring, fetch. Not the ladyjust the servant.
Laughter, now more spiteful, rolled through the room. James averted his gaze, pretending to be absorbed in a napkin. I lifted the fork, stood straight, and for the first time all evening allowed a genuine smile to touch my lipsno pretense, no courtesy.
They had no idea that the world built on my patience was about to crumble, while my own was just beginning. My smile knocked them off balance; the mirth died as abruptly as it had begun. Margarets jaw froze midchew, bewildered.
Instead of returning the fork, I slipped into the kitchen, dropped it into the sink, fetched a clean glass, and poured myself a glass of cherry juicethe very drink Margaret had dismissed as a frivolous luxury. Glass in hand, I returned to the sittingroom and took the only empty seat beside James. He looked at me as though seeing me for the first time.
Emma, the hot dishes are cooling! Margaret snapped, her voice again laced with steel. You must serve the guests. I took a modest sip, keeping my eyes on her. Im sure James can manage, I said calmly. He is the master of this house. Let him prove it.
All eyes turned to James. He went pale, then flushed, his nervousness evident as he darted pleading looks between me and his mother. I yes, of course, he stammered, shuffling toward the kitchen.
It was a small, sweet victory. The room grew heavy, the air thick. Realising the direct attack had failed, Margaret shifted tactics and spoke of the family cottage: Weve decided to go to the cottage in July, the whole lot of us. A month of fresh air, as usual. She glanced at me. Emma, youll need to start packing next week, move the preserves, get the house ready. She spoke as though this had been settled for ages, as if my opinion mattered not at all.
I set my glass down slowly. Sounds lovely, MrsWhitfield, but I have other plans for the summer. My words lingered like ice cubes in a glass on a hot day.
What other plans? James returned, balancing a tray of crooked plates. What are you dreaming up?
His voice trembled with irritation and bewilderment. He had grown accustomed to my acquiescence; my refusal sounded to him like a declaration of war. Im buying a new flat, I said, looking first at him, then at his mother, whose stare hardened into fury.
The flats too cramped, I added, pausing to savour the effect. I need something larger.
A deafening silence fell, broken only by Margarets short, hoarse snort of laughter. Shes buying? With what money, pray tell? A thirtyyear mortgage? Will she spend her whole life working behind concrete walls? Uncle John, who had been silent, snorted. An inheritance, perhaps? A millionaire aunt died in America?
Exactly, I replied, turning to him. Only the aunt is me, and Im still alive. I took another sip of juice, letting the truth settle.
Yesterday I sold my project, I continued, facing Margaret squarely. The one you all thought kept me shackled to that office. The startup I built for three years. The deal was twenty million pounds. The moneys already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flatperhaps even a little house by the sea, so Ill never feel cramped again.
A ringing hush filled the room. Faces tightened, smiles vanished, leaving only confusion and shock. James stared, mouth open, no sound escaping. Margarets colour drained; her mask crumbled before our eyes.
I rose, grabbed my handbag from the chair. James, happy birthday. This is my present to you. Im moving out tomorrow. You and your family have a week to find a new place. Im selling this flat too. I headed for the door, hearing no protest. They sat paralyzed.
At the threshold I turned once more. And, MrsWhitfield, I said, voice firm and calm, the servant is tired today and needs a rest.
Six months later I lived in a bright new flat, perched on a wide windowsill that framed the evening cityscapea living, breathing organism that no longer seemed hostile. In my hand was a glass of cherry juice; on my lap a laptop displayed the blueprints of my next venture, an architectural app already courting its first investors. Work was hard, but now it filled me with joy rather than draining me. For the first time in years I breathed fully, the constant tension that had haunted me evaporating. I no longer whispered, tiptoed, or guessed others moods; I no longer felt like a guest in my own home.
After that birthday, Jamess phone never stopped buzzing. He oscillated between furious threatsYoull regret this! Youre nothing without me!and midnight voice messages lamenting how wonderful things used to be. I listened to the emptiness of his words; his good was built on my silence. The divorce was swift; he made no demands. Margaret proved as predictable as ever, calling to demand justice, shouting that she had been robbed of her son. Once she tried to grab my arm outside the business centre where I rented an office; I simply walked around her, saying nothing. Her power ended where my patience did.
Sometimes, in a strange bout of nostalgia, Id glance at Jamess social media. Pictures showed him back at his parents house, the same carpet, the same wall hanging, his face forever etched with a sense of grievance, as if the world itself were to blame for his failed life. No guests lingered, no celebrations remained.
A few weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a message from an unknown number: Emma, hi. Its James. Mum wants a salad recipe. Says she cant get it right. I stopped in the middle of the street, read it a few times, and then laughednot with malice but with genuine amusement. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our saga. They had tried to destroy my family, to erase me, and now they wanted a simple salad.
In my new life, filled with interesting projects, respectful people, and quiet happiness, there was no room for old grudges or outdated recipes. I added the number to a block list without a second thought, as if discarding a stray speck of dust. Then I took a generous sip of cherry juice, its sweettart flavour the very taste of freedom, and it was exquisite.
