Long ago, in a small town in Yorkshire, there lived a woman named Margaret Whitmore. One morning, she sat up in bed, her head spinning, her throat burning with fever. The thermometer read thirty-nine degrees. Down the hall, her eldest daughter, Emily, burst into the room without knocking.
“Mum, wheres my breakfast?” Emily demanded, arms crossed. “Ill be late for school!”
Margaret tried to speak, but her voice was hoarse. “Emily, Im ill Take something from the larder.”
“Theres nothing there! Just baby Annabelles yoghurts!” Emily huffed. “You never think of anyone but her!”
From the nursery, little Annabelle wailed. Margaret forced herself to stand, knees trembling, and stumbled to the crib.
Meanwhile, her husband, Richard, called from the bathroom. “Margaret, wheres my striped blue shirt?”
“It should be in the wardrobe”
“Its not! Did you iron it yesterday?”
She had spent all day feverish, caring for Annabelle. “No, I didnt have time.”
“Blast it! Ive a meeting!” Richard slammed the bathroom door.
Emily shouted from the kitchen. “Mum, theres no breadnot even toast!”
“Moneys on the table. Buy something on your way.”
“I cant stop at the shop! Ive an exam! And anyway, feeding us is your job!”
Margaret, holding Annabelle, silently fried some sausages.
“And make pasta!” Emily ordered, glued to her phone.
Richard emerged in a wrinkled shirt. “Had to wear this. Look like a beggar. Thanks for nothing.”
Margaret said nothing. Speaking hurt, and she had no strength left.
“Sophies birthday is today,” Emily announced, piling pasta onto her plate. “Im going after school. Dont wait up.”
“Emily, Im terribly ill. Could you stay and help with Annabelle?”
“Not a chance! Ive waited months for this party! And I never asked for a sisterthats your problem!” She slammed the door behind her.
Richard ate hastily, scrolling through news on his phone.
“Richard, could you come home early? I feel dreadful.”
“Cant. Office drinks after work. Duty calls.”
“But Im ill”
“Take something. Paracetamol. Youre not bedridden.” He kissed her damp forehead and left.
Alone with Annabelle, Margaret moved mechanically, her strength failing.
By afternoon, her fever climbed higher. She fed Annabelle, put her to bed, and collapsed onto the sofa. Her head throbbed.
Her phone buzzedEmily: *Mum, send money for Sophies gift. Urgent!*
Margaret didnt reply. She hadnt the strength.
That evening, Richard returned first, tipsy, carrying crisps and ale.
“Brought snacks! Matchs on!” He flopped onto the sofa.
“Richard, please feed Annabelle. I cant move.”
“That bad?” He finally looked at her. “Youre red as a beet.”
“High fever. All day”
“Call a doctor if its that bad. Wheres Annabelle?”
“In her cot. Shell wake soon.”
“Fine, Ill feed her when shes up.”
Half an hour later, Annabelle cried for her mother. Richard, annoyed, lifted her.
“Why the fuss? Come to Dad!”
But the child reached for Margaret, wailing. Richard panicked.
“Margaret, she wants you!”
“Give her a biscuit from the tin. And juice.”
“Where? I cant find anything!”
Margaret forced herself up, swaying. She fetched the biscuit, poured juice. Annabelle quieted.
Emily returned past midnight.
“Why didnt you reply? I had to borrow from Sophies mum! So embarrassing!”
“Emily, my fever was nearly forty”
“So? Couldnt you pick up the phone?”
The next morning, Richard shook her awake.
“Margaret, get up! Ive work, and Annabelles screaming!”
Weak but determined, Margaret dressed Annabelle.
“And breakfast?” Richard asked.
“Make it yourself. Im taking Annabelle to nursery.”
“Make it myself? I cant! No time!”
“Youll learn.”
Something in her tone silenced him. He grumbled and stormed off.
When Margaret returned, the house was a messdirty dishes, scattered clothes, unmade beds. Usually, shed clean immediately. Not today.
She showered, drank tea, and slept.
That evening, the family gathered at the empty table.
“Mum, whats for dinner?” Emily asked.
“I dont know. Whatever you make.”
“What?”
“Exactly. Im only cooking for myself and Annabelle now.”
“Why?” Richard scowled.
“Because in this family, everyone looks after themselves. So live that way!”
“Margaret, whats got into you?” He reached for her, but she stepped back.
“Im tired of being your servant! Yesterday proved Im just unpaid staff to you.”
“Mum, I said sorry!” Emily lied.
“No, you didnt. Neither of you even asked how I was.”
“Well, sorry!” Emily muttered. “Are we meant to starve?”
“The larders full. Use your hands.”
The first week was chaos. Emily threw tantrums; Richard grumbled. Margaret held firmcooking only for herself and Annabelle, washing only their clothes.
“Mum, my jeans are filthy!” Emily wailed.
“The washing machines there. Detergents under the sink.”
“I dont know how!”
“Youll learn. Instructions are on the lid.”
Richard wore wrinkled shirts, ate at cafés. Money dwindled.
“Margaret, this is absurd! Eating out daily!”
“Cook at home. Cheaper.”
“I dont know how!”
“Try YouTube. Millions of recipes.”
The house descended into filth. Margaret ignored it, keeping only the nursery tidy.
Two weeks in, Emily attempted pasta. She forgot salt, overcooked itmush.
“Mum, help!”
“No. Learn.”
“Youre my mother! Youre supposed to!”
“I care for minors. Cooking gourmet meals for you isnt my duty. Bread, milk, cerealyou wont starve.”
Richard tried scrambled eggs. Burnt them. Tried againedible.
“Look, Margaret! I made eggs!”
She nodded and returned to her book. No praise, no fuss.
By week three, the house was a sty. Emily sobbed over laundry.
“Mum, please! Just this once! Ive nothing clean for school!”
“You were home all yesterday. Couldve washed them.”
“I was studying!”
“I work from home, cook, clean, care for Annabelle. I manage.”
“Youre an adult!”
“And you want adult privilegesstaying out late, pocket money? Then act like one.”
By months end, resistance crumbled. Emily learned to wash, cook basics, tidy. Richard mastered eggs, pasta, even simple soup.
One evening, Margaret returned from the park. The table was set; supper smelled ready. Richard and Emily stood guiltily.
“Mum, we made dinner,” Emily murmured. “I did salad; Dad roasted chicken.”
“Thank you,” Margaret said calmly.
“Mum, forgive us,” Emily whispered. “We didnt realise how hard it is for you.”
“Margaret, well help now,” Richard added. “Honestly.”
Margaret studied them. They hadnt changednot truly. But fear of losing her, their unpaid caretaker, had sunk in.
Now they knew: cross her, and theyd face dirty dishes and crumpled shirts alone.
“Very well,” she said. “But rememberIm not a servant. Im a person. A wife, a mother. Treat me accordingly.”
“We understand,” Emily nodded. “Truly.”
Dinner was quiet. But the air had shifted. Emily cleared the table; Richard washed up. Small thingsbut to Margaret, victory.
That night, tucking Annabelle in, she whispered,
“Youll grow up different. Independent. Knowing the world doesnt owe you. And youll marry a man who washes his own plate.”
Annabelle sleepily hugged her. In the bedroom, Richard waited with tea.
“Here. Your favouritehoney.”
“Thank you.”
“Margaret would you really have left us?”
She paused.
“Not left. But Id not return to how things were. Enough. Im a person too. I deserve respect.”
“We understand now.”
“Well see,” she sipped her tea. “Time will tell.”
And it did. The family wasnt perfectEmily forgot dishes; Richard left shirts crumpled. But the difference was in their eyes.
They saw Margaret nownot a servant, but a woman. A wife, a mother, someone who could tire, fall ill, need rest.
It was
