You’re not the mistressyoure the servant, murmured Aunt Maud, her voice sweet as jam yet cutting like hot sauce, a sting of pretence that burned. I nodded silently, clutching the nearly empty salad bowl. The lady, my husband Andrews thirdcousin, fixed me with a glare that resembled the annoyed stare one gives a buzzing fly that circles too long.
I glided through the kitchen, trying to become invisible. It was Andrews birthday, or rather, his family was celebrating his birthday in my flatthe flat whose rent I paid. Laughter rippled from the sitting room in uneven waves: the robust bass of Uncle Jacks chuckle, the sharp bark of his wife, and over it all the commanding timbre of Miriam Parker, my motherinlaw. Andrew must have been tucked into a corner, smiling thinly and nodding timidly.
I filled the bowl, topping it with a sprig of dill. My hands moved on autopilot while a single thought spun in my head: twenty. Twenty million. The night before, after the final email confirmation arrived, I had crouched on the bathroom floor, hidden from view, staring at my phone. The project Id nurtured for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, and nearhopeless attemptshad boiled down to a single number on a screen: seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you stuck? the motherinlaw called impatiently. The guests are waiting! I carried the bowl back into the hall. The party was in full swing.
Youre as slow as a snail, Blythe, Aunt Maud said, pushing her plate aside. Just a turtle. Andrew flinched but said nothing. He hated any hint of a scandalthat was his favourite life rule.
I set the salad on the table. Miriam Parker, adjusting the perfect arrangement, announced loudly so everyone could hear, Not everyone is meant to be swift. Office work isnt about household chores. There you sit at a computer and go home. Here you must think, hustle, scramble. She swept the room with a triumphant glance; everyone nodded. My cheeks warmed.
Reaching for an empty glass, I knocked a fork off the side. It clanged onto the floor. Silence fell for a heartbeat; a dozen eyes fixed on the fork, then on me. Miriam laughed, harsh and venomous. See? I told you! Hands like claws. She turned to the woman beside her and, not lowering her voice, added sardonically, Ive always told Andrew: shes no match for you. In this house youre the master, and she shes just wallpaper. Bring it, fetch it. Not the mistressjust the servant.
Laughter rolled through the room, now more spiteful. Andrew averted his gaze, pretending to be busy with a napkin. I lifted the fork, stood straight, and for the first time that evening, smiledgenuinely, not forced.
They had no idea that the world built on my patience was about to crumble, and that my new life was about to begin, right then and there. My smile knocked them off balance; the laughter died as abruptly as it had started. Miriams jaw froze midchew, bewildered. I didnt place the fork back; instead I slipped into the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, grabbed a clean glass, and poured myself cherry juicethe very luxury my motherinlaw called both bliss and a foolish expense.
Glass in hand, I returned to the lounge and took the only vacant seat, beside Andrew. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. Blythe, hot things cool quickly! Miriam snapped, her voice again ringing with steel. You must serve the guests. I took a modest sip, eyes never leaving her. Im sure Andrew can manage, I said, Hes the head of the house. Let him prove it. All eyes snapped to Andrew. He turned pale, then flushed, nervous, casting pleading glances between me and his mother.
I yes, of course, he stammered, stumbling toward the kitchen. It was a tiny, sweet victory. The room grew heavy, the air thick.
Realising the direct attack had failed, Miriam shifted tactics, speaking of the cottage. Were thinking of going to the country house in July, the whole family. A month as usual, some fresh air. Blythe, youll need to start packing next week, move the supplies, get the house ready, she declared, as if the plan had been set in stone long before my opinion existed. I placed my glass down slowly. Sounds lovely, Miriam, but I have other plans for the summer. The words hung like ice cubes on a hot day.
What other plans? Andrew returned with a tray of haphazardly stacked plates, his voice trembling with irritation and confusion. He seemed to think my refusal was a declaration of war. Im not making anything up, I said calmly, first to him, then to his mother, whose stare turned fierce. I have business plans. Im buying a new flat. I paused, savoring the effect. This one has become far too cramped. A deafening silence followed, broken only by Miriams short, croaking laugh. Shes buying? With what money, pray tell? A thirtyyear mortgage? Spend your whole life working behind concrete walls? Andrew, eager for support, chanted, Moms right, Bly. He slammed the tray down, sauce splattering onto the tablecloth. Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scanned the guests; each wore a look of contemptuous distrust, as if I were an empty space that suddenly thought itself grand. Why a mortgage? I asked, softening my smile. No, I dont like debt. Im paying cash. Uncle Jack, who had been silent, snorted. An inheritance, perhaps? Some American millionaire aunt passed on? The guests giggled, feeling once more like masters of the situation. You could say that, I replied, turning to him. Except the old lady is me, and Im still alive. I took a sip of juice, giving them time to grasp the meaning.
Yesterday I sold my project. The one you all thought kept me chained to an office desk. The startup I built for three years. I stared straight at Miriam. The deal was twenty million pounds. The moneys already in my account, so yes, Im buying a flatmaybe even a seaside cottageto make sure I never feel cramped again. The room fell into a ringing hush. Faces stretched, smiles vanished, leaving only confusion and shock. Andrews eyes widened, his mouth open but silent. Miriams complexion drained; her mask crumbled before our eyes.
I rose, grabbed my handbag from the chair. Andrew, happy birthday. This is my gift to you. Im moving out tomorrow. You and your family have a week to find new accommodation. Im selling this flat as well. I headed for the door, hearing no sound behind me. They were paralyzed. At the threshold I turned one last time. And Miriam, I said, voice firm and calm, the servant is tired today and needs a rest.
Six months later, I sat on the wide windowsill of my new flat. Outside, the city glowed from floor to ceiling, a living, breathing creature that no longer seemed hostile. It belonged to me. In my hand I held a glass of cherry juice. On my lap rested a laptop, open to the blueprints of a new architectural app that had already attracted its first investors. I worked a lot, but now it was joy, not drain. For the first time in years I breathed fully. The constant tension that had haunted me evaporated. I no longer whispered, moved cautiously, guessed moods. I stopped feeling like a guest in my own home.
After that birthday, the phone never stopped. Andrew cycled through furious threatsYoull regret this! Youre nothing without me!to plaintive nighttime voicemails, whining about how good things used to be. Listening, I felt only cold emptiness. His good was built on my silence. The divorce was swift; he made no demands. Miriam was predictable: calls demanding justice, shouting that shed been robbed of her son. Once she cornered me outside the business centre where I rented office space, tried to grab my arm. I simply walked past, saying nothing. Her power ended where my patience did.
Sometimes, in a strange nostalgic haze, Id check Andrews social media. Photos showed him back at his parents house, the same carpet, the same wallhanging, his face forever etched with resentment, as if the whole world were to blame for his failed life. No guests any more. No celebrations.
A few weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a text from an unknown number: Bly, hi. Its Andrew. Mum wants a salad recipe. Says she cant get it right. I stopped in the street, read it over several times, then laughednot with malice, but genuine amusement. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our story. They had tried to destroy my family, to erase me, and now they wanted a good salad.
I glanced at the screen. In my new life, filled with exciting projects, respected people, and quiet happiness, there was no room for old recipes or old grudges. I added the number to the block list without hesitation, as if sweeping away a stray speck of dust. Then I took a deep gulp of juicesweet, with a faint bite. It tasted like freedom, and it was beautiful.
