Youre not the lady of the houseyoure the servant, my motherinlaw, Miriam Hargreaves, said, her voice sweet as jam yet as hot as Tabasco, a scorching veneer of false courtesy. I gave a silent nod and lifted the nearly empty salad bowl. The lady, a distant aunt of my husband SimonsMaud Whitakershot me a glance as irritable as a fly buzzing around a kitchen for ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen like a shadow, trying to be unseen. It was Simons birthday, or more precisely, his family was celebrating his birthday in my flatthe flat I paid for. Laughter burst from the sittingroom in jagged waves: the robust bass of Uncle Jacks jokes, the sharp bark of his wife Jenna, and over it all the firm, almost commanding timbre of Miriam Hargreaves. Simon probably sat in a corner, smiling tensely, nodding shyly.
I filled the bowl, tucking a sprig of dill onto the top. My hands moved on autopilot while a single thought looped in my mind: twenty. Twentymillion. The night before, after the final email confirmation, I had crouched on the bathroom floor, hidden from sight, staring at my phone. The project Id nurtured for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears and nearhopeless attemptshad condensed to a single figure on the screen. Seven zeroes. My liberty.
Where are you stuck? Miriam snapped impatiently. The guests are waiting! I carried the bowl back into the hall; the celebration was in full swing.
Slow as a snail, Ethel, Maud quipped, pushing her plate aside. Youre a proper turtle. Simon flinched but stayed silent. He despised any scene that might erupthis favourite life rule.
I set the salad on the table. Miriam, adjusting the immaculate layout, announced loudly so everyone could hear: Not everyone is meant to be swift. Office work isnt household work. You sit at a desk and go home. Here you must think, manage, hustle. She surveyed the guests with a triumphant gaze; they all nodded. My cheeks flushed.
Reaching for an empty glass, my fork slipped, clanged, and fell to the floor. A hush fell. For a heartbeat every eye turned toward the sound, then toward me.
Miriam burst into a harsh, poisonous laugh. See? I told you! Your hands are claws. She turned to the woman beside her, voice still sharp, and added: I always told Simon: she isnt his match. In this house youre the master, and she merely a piece of décor. Serve, bring, fetch. Not the lady the servant.
The room erupted again in smug laughter. Simon averted his gaze, feigning preoccupation with a napkin. I lifted the fork calmly, straightened my back, and for the first time that evening smiledgenuinely, not out of obligation.
They could not have guessed that their world, built on my patience, was about to crumble. My own was just beginning. My smile knocked them off balance; the laughter died as abruptly as it had begun. Miriams jaw froze midchew.
Instead of returning the fork to the table, I walked to the sink, dropped it in, fetched a clean glass, and poured myself a draught of cherry juicethe very expensive brew Miriam dismissed as a frivolous indulgence. Glass in hand, I slipped back into the sittingroom and took the only vacant seat beside Simon. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Ethel, hot things cool fast! Miriam snapped, her voice again edged with steel. We must serve the guests. I took a modest sip, eyes never leaving her. Im sure Simon can manage, I replied. Hes the master of the house. Let him prove it. All eyes darted to Simon. He turned pale, then flushed, his stare flickering desperately between me and his mother.
I of course, he muttered, stumbling toward the kitchen. It was a tiny, sweet victory; the room grew heavy, thick with tension.
Realising the direct attack had failed, Miriam changed tack, speaking of the summer cottage: Weve decided to go to the cottage in July, the whole family. A month, as usual, to breathe fresh air. She continued, as if the plan had been settled years ago, ignoring any input from me. Ethel, youll need to start packing next week, move the preserves, get the house ready.
I set my glass down slowly. Sounds lovely, Miriam, I said, but I have other plans this summer. My words hung in the air like ice cubes on a scorching day.
What other plans? Simon returned, balancing a tray of crooked plates. What are you dreaming up? His voice trembled with irritation and bewilderment; my refusal sounded to him like a declaration of war.
Nothing imagined, I replied calmly, first looking at him, then at his mother, whose eyes now burned with fury. I have business plans. Im buying a new flat. I paused, savoring the effect. The one Im in now has become far too cramped.
A deafening silence fell, broken only by Miriams short, hoarse laugh. Shes buying? With what money, I wonder? A thirtyyear mortgage? Will you spend your whole life working on concrete walls? Simon, seizing the moment, shouted, Stop this circus! Youre embarrassing us all. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scanned the guests; each wore disdainful doubt, eyes on me as if I were some empty space that thought itself grand. Why a mortgage? I asked, smiling softly. No, I dont like debt. Im paying cash. Uncle Jack, who had been quiet, snorted. An inheritance, perhaps? Did the American millionaire aunt die? Laughter rippled again; they saw themselves as the masters, me as the upstart bluffer.
Yes, you could say that, I answered, turning to him. Except the aunt 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. The deal was twenty million pounds. The money is already in my account, so yes, Im buying a flatmaybe even a seaside cottageso Im never cramped again.
A ringing silence settled over the room. Faces stretched, smiles vanished, leaving only shock and confusion. Simon stared, mouth agape, silent. Miriams colour drained; her mask crumbled before their eyes.
I stood, grabbed my handbag from the chair, and said, Simon, happy birthday. This is my gift to you. Im moving tomorrow. You and your family have a week to find new lodgings. Im selling this flat too. I headed for the door, hearing no protest; they were frozen.
At the threshold I turned, delivering a final line. And Miriam, the servant is tired and needs a rest.
Six months later I sat on the wide windowsill of my new flat, the city lights spilling over the floortoceiling windows, a living, breathing tapestry that no longer seemed hostile. In my hand was a glass of cherry juice; on my knees lay a laptop opened to the blueprints of a new architectural app that had already attracted its first investors. I worked hard, but now it was a joy, not a drain. For the first time in years I breathed fully, the constant tension that had ruled my life for so long finally gone. The habit of whispering, moving carefully, guessing others moods faded; the feeling of being a guest in my own home vanished.
After that birthday, Simons phone never stopped. He cycled through furious threatsYoull regret this! Youre nothing without me!to plaintive midnight voice notes lamenting how wonderful their past had been. I felt only cold emptiness; his good was built on my silence. The divorce was swift; he made no demands.
Miriam was predictably relentless, calling, demanding justice, shouting that I had stolen her son. Once she lunged at me outside the business centre where I rented office space, trying to grab my arm. I simply walked around her, saying nothing. Her power ended where my patience did.
Sometimes, in a strange nostalgic mood, I would glance at Simons social media. The photos showed him back with his parents, the same battered carpet on the wall, his face perpetually sour, as if the world were conspiring against him.
No guests now, no celebrations. A few weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a text from an unknown number: Ethel, hi. Its Simon. Mum wants a salad recipe. She says she cant get it right. I stopped in the street, read it several times, then laughednot with malice but genuine amusement. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our saga. They had tried to shatter my life, but now they only wanted a salad.
I added the number to my block list without hesitation, as if removing a speck of dust. Then I took a deep gulp of my cherry juice, its sweetbitter note a taste of freedom, and it was wonderful.
