28May2024
Tonight I watched a small drama unfold in our flat on Camden Road, and I felt the need to put it down while the emotions are still fresh.
Emily, dear, just a little more of that salad for the guest, my motherinlaw, Dorothy Whitmore, sang, her voice sweet as jam but with a bite that reminded me of hot sauce tossed in a smile.
I gave a silent nod, lifting the almostempty salad bowl. The lady, my husbands thirdcousin once removed, fixed me with a stare that could have been aimed at a fly buzzing around a kitchen for the last ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen like a ghost, trying to be invisible. It was Peters birthday, or rather, his familys celebration of his birthday in my homemy home, the one I pay the mortgage on.
Laughter rippled from the livingroom in uneven bursts: Uncle Johns booming bass voice, the sharp bark of his wifes dog, and over it all Dorothys commanding tones, as if she were a ships captain. Peter sat somewhere in the corner, his smile stretched thin, his head bobbing in polite agreement.
I filled the bowl again, sprinkling a sprig of dill for garnish. My hands moved on autopilot while the number twenty kept looping in my head. Twenty million.
Just the night before, after receiving the final confirmation email, I had sat on the bathroom floor, hidden from view, staring at my phone. The project Id nurtured for three yearscountless sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, nearhopeless attemptshad boiled down to seven zeros on a screen. My freedom, £20million, now sitting in my account.
Where are you hiding? Dorothy snapped impatiently. The guests are waiting!
I carried the bowl back to the hall. The party was in full swing.
Youre so slow, Emily, Aunt Margaret chided, pushing her plate away. Youre like a turtle.
Peter flinched but said nothing. He hates any hint of a scene.
I set the salad on the table. Dorothy, adjusting the perfect placement of the dishes, announced loudly so everyone could hear:
Not everyone is born with quick hands. Working in an office is not the same as running a household. Here you must think, hustle, keep moving.
She scanned the room with a triumphant look; everyone nodded. My cheeks flushed.
Reaching for an empty glass, I brushed a fork off the table. It clanged onto the floor.
Silence fell. For a heartbeat every eye was on the forkand on me.
Dorothy burst out laughing, cruel and sharp.
See? I told you! Her hands are like claws.
She turned to the woman beside her, voice unchanged, and added with a sneer:
I always told Peter: she isnt his match. In this house youre the master, and she just the background décor. Serve, fetch, dont act the mistress.
Laughter, now more spiteful, filled the room again. Peter looked away, pretending to be occupied with a napkin.
I lifted the fork, stood tall, and for the first time that evening I gave a genuine smileno forced politeness, just real.
They had no idea that the world theyd built on my patience was about to crumble, and that my new one was only just beginning.
My smile knocked them off balance. Their laughter died as abruptly as it had started; Dorothys jaw froze in bewilderment.
Instead of returning the fork to the table, I walked to the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, grabbed a clean glass, and poured myself a goblet of cherry juicethe very drink my motherinlaw called a luxury waste of money.
Glass in hand, I returned to the lounge and took the only free seat, right beside Peter. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Emily, the hot drink is cooling! Dorothy exclaimed, her voice again tinged with steel. We need to keep the guests served.
Im sure Peter can manage, I said, taking a sip without taking my eyes off her. Hes the head of the house. Let him prove it.
All eyes turned to Peter. He turned pale, then flushed, darting uneasy glances between me and his mother.
Yes of course, he stammered, stumbling toward the kitchen.
A small, sweet victory.
Dorothy, realizing the direct attack had failed, shifted tactics and began talking about the summer house:
Weve decided to go to the cottage in July, a month as usual. Fresh air.
Aunt Margaret, you should start packing next week, move the supplies, get the house ready, she said, as if the decision had been made years ago, ignoring any opinion I might have.
I set my glass down slowly.
That sounds lovely, Dorothy, I replied. But I have other plans for the summer.
The words hung in the air like ice cubes on a hot day.
What other plans? Peter returned with a tray of uneven plates, his voice trembling with irritation and confusion. What are you dreaming up?
Im buying a new flat, I said calmly, first looking at Peter, then at his mother, whose gaze burned with fury.
My current place is simply too cramped, I added, pausing to savor the effect.
A deafening silence fell, broken only by Dorothys short, cackling laugh.
Buying? With what money, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Spend your whole life working on concrete walls?
Moms right, Emily, Peter blurted, seeking support. He slammed the tray down, sauce splattering the tablecloth. Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
The guests looked at me with contempt, as if I were an empty seat that had suddenly claimed importance.
Why a mortgage? I asked, smiling gently. No, I dont like debt. Im paying cash.
Uncle John, who had been quiet, snorted.
An inheritance, perhaps? Did a rich aunt in America pass away?
The crowd chuckled, feeling once again on top. I turned to them.
Actually, that aunt is me. Im still alive.
I took another sip of juice, letting the meaning settle.
Yesterday I sold my startup. The same one you thought kept me stuck in an office. The deal was for £20million. The money is already in my account, so yes, Im buying a flatmaybe even a seaside cottageso I wont feel cramped again.
The room fell into a ringing hush. Faces drained of color, smiles vanished, leaving only shock and bewilderment.
Peter stared, mouth open, no sound escaping.
Dorothys complexion faded; her façade crumbled before our eyes.
I stood, grabbed my bag from the chair, and said:
Happy birthday, Peter. Heres my gift. Im moving out tomorrow. You and your family have a week to find a new place. Im also selling this flat.
I walked to the door. Not a word reached my ears; they were all paralysed.
At the threshold I turned and gave my final line.
And Dorothy, the servant is tired and needs a break.
Six months later I sit on the wide windowsill of my new flat overlooking the city lights, the evening sky shimmering over a bustling metropolis that now feels friendly rather than hostile.
In my hand is a glass of cherry juice. On my lap rests a laptop open to the blueprints of my next venturean architectural app that has already attracted its first investors.
I work hard, but now it brings joy because the work fills me instead of draining me.
For the first time in years I breathe freely. The constant tension that had been my companion vanished. I no longer whisper, move cautiously, guess others moods. I no longer feel like a guest in my own home.
After that birthday, Peters calls never stopped. He went from furious threats (Youll regret this! Youre nothing without me!) to latenight voice notes sobbing about the good old days. I listened to the emptiness in his words; his good was built on my silence. The divorce was swift. He made no demands.
Dorothy kept calling, demanding justice, shouting that Id stolen her son. Once she tried to grab me by the arm outside the business centre where I lease office space. I simply walked past her, saying nothing.
Her power ended where my patience ran out.
Sometimes, in odd nostalgia, I check Peters social media. Hes back living with his parents, the same carpet, the same wall art, his face set in perpetual resentment as if the world owed him for his failures.
No more guests, no more parties.
A couple of weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a message from an unknown number:
Emily, hi. Its Peter. Mom wants a salad recipe. Says she cant get it right.
I stopped in the middle of the street, read it twice, then laughednot with malice but genuine amusement. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our saga. They tried to ruin my life, to destroy our family, and now they wanted a tasty salad.
I added the number to the block list without hesitation, as if removing a speck of dust.
Then I took a big gulp of my cherry juicesweet with a hint of bitterness. It tasted like freedom, and it was wonderful.
Lesson learned: when you stop serving the roles others assign you, you finally serve yourself.
