Youre not the lady of the houseyoure the servant,
Ellie, dear, just a bit more of this splendid ladys salad, my motherinlaw, Margaret Hargreaves, sang sweetly, though it tasted more like scorching Tabasco a burn of false kindness.
I gave a silent nod, clutching the nearly empty bowl. The lady in question, my husband Simons third cousin once removed, fixed me with a glare the way one watches a persistent fly buzzing around ones head for ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen like a ghost, trying not to be seen. It was Simons birthdaywell, more precisely, his family was celebrating his birthday in my flat. The flat I pay the mortgage on.
Laughter cracked from the lounge in uneven burststhe boisterous bass of Uncle Jeremy, his wifes sharp bark, and over it all Margarets confident, almost commandlike timbre. Simon was probably tucked in a corner, smiling tightly and nodding nervously.
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 been sitting on the bathroom floor so no one could see, staring at my phone screen. The threeyearlong projecthundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears and nearhopeless attemptshad boiled down to one number on the screen. Seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you hiding? my motherinlaw snapped. The guests are waiting!
I lugged the bowl back into the hall. The party was in full swing.
Youre as slow as molasses, Ellie, my greataunt muttered, pushing her plate aside. A proper turtle.
Simon flinched, but kept quiet. He hated dramahis favourite life rule.
I set the salad on the table. Margaret, straightening the perfect arrangement, announced loudly enough for everyone to hear:
Not everyone is born quick on their feet. Office work isnt housekeeping. You sit at a computer there and go home. Here you must think, juggle, hustle.
She swept the room with a triumphant glance. Everyone nodded. My cheeks flushed.
Reaching for an empty glass, I knocked a fork off the table; it clanged onto the floor.
Silence. For a heartbeat everyone froze, eyes darting from the fork to me.
Margaret burst out laughingloud, vicious, poisonous.
See? I told you! Hands like hooks.
She turned to the woman beside her, voice still sharp, and added with a sneer:
I always said to Simon, she isnt your match. In this house youre the master, and she just a decorative piece. Bring, fetch, serve. Not the ladyjust the help.
Laughter roared again, now even more smug. Simon averted his gaze, pretending to be engrossed with a napkin.
I picked up the fork calmly, straightened my back, and for the first time all evening, smiled genuinelynot strained, not polite, but real.
They had no idea that the world built on my patience was about to crumble, and that my own was just beginning.
My smile knocked them off balance. Their chuckles died as abruptly as theyd started. Margaret even stopped chewing, her jaw frozen in bewilderment.
I didnt put the fork back. Instead I drifted to the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, fetched a clean glass and poured myself a mug of cherry juicethe very pricey one Margaret called a luxury and a foolish splurge.
Glass in hand, I returned to the lounge and claimed the only vacant seatright beside Simon. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Ellie, hot drinks cool quickly! Margaret blurted, her voice still edged with steel. You must serve the guests.
Im sure Simon can manage, I sipped, eyes locked on her. Hes the head of the house. Lets see him prove it.
All eyes turned to Simon. He turned pale, then flushed, trembling, throwing pleading glances alternately at me and his mother.
Yes of course, he stammered, stumbling toward the kitchen.
A tiny, sweet victory. The room grew heavy, the air thick.
Realising a direct attack hadnt worked, Margaret switched tactics, talking about the country house:
Were planning a July trip to the cottagejust a month, as usual. Fresh air.
Ellie, youll need to start packing next week, move the supplies, get the house ready.
She spoke as if it were already decided, as if my opinion didnt exist.
I set my glass down slowly.
That sounds lovely, Margaret, I replied, but Ive got other plans for this summer.
The words hung like ice cubes on a hot day.
What other plans? Simon returned with a tray of unevenly piled plates. What are you dreaming up?
His voice trembled with irritation and confusion. Hed grown used to my acquiescence; my refusal sounded like a declaration of war.
Nothing at all, I said 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.
This ones become far too cramped.
A deafening silence fell, broken only by Margarets short, cackling laugh.
Shes buying? With what money, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Spend your whole life working on concrete walls?
Moms right, Ellie, Simon leapt in, eager for support, slamming the tray down so a splash of sauce speckled the tablecloth. Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scanned the guests. Each wore a look of contempt, as if Id suddenly declared myself something grand.
Why a mortgage? I asked, smiling softly. No, I dont like debt. Im paying cash.
Uncle Jeremy, who had been silent, snorted.
An inheritance, perhaps? Some American millionaire aunt passed away?
The guests giggled, feeling once more like the masters of the room.
Sure, you could say that, I replied, turning to him. Except the aunt is me, and Im still alive.
I took a sip of juice, letting the absurdity settle.
Yesterday I sold my project. The one you all think kept me stuck in an 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 flat. Maybe even a seaside cottage, so Im never cramped again.
The room fell into a ringing hush. Faces stretched, smiles vanished, replaced by shock and confusion.
Simon stared, mouth open, eyes wide, no sound escaping. Margarets colour drained, her mask crumbling.
I rose, grabbed my handbag from the chair.
Simon, happy birthday. Heres my gift 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. No sound reached my back; they were paralyzed.
At the threshold I turned and delivered the final line.
And Margaret, the help is exhausted and needs a break.
Six months later, I was perched on the wide windowsill of my brandnew flat. Beyond the floortoceiling glass, the city glittereda living, breathing creature that no longer felt hostile.
It was mine. In my hand, a glass of cherry juice. On my knees, a laptop opened to the schematics of a new architectural app that had already attracted its first investors.
I worked hard, but now it was a joy, because the work filled me instead of draining me.
For the first time in years I breathed fully. The constant tension that had haunted me for years evaporated. The habit of moving quietly, guessing moods, feeling like a guest in my own house vanished.
After that birthday, Simons phone never stopped buzzing. He went from furious threats (Youll regret this! Youre nothing without me!) to latenight voice messages whining about how wonderful their past was. Listening, I felt only cold emptiness. His wonderful was built on my silence. The divorce was swift; he made no demands.
Margaret was predictably relentlesscalling, demanding justice, shouting that Id stolen 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 ran out.
Sometimes, in odd nostalgia, Id peek at Simons social media. Photos showed him back at his parents house, the same carpet, the same wall hanging, his face twisted in perpetual resentment, as if the whole world were to blame for his failed life.
No guests any more. No celebrations.
A couple of weeks ago, after a meeting, I got a text from an unknown number:
Ellie, hi. Its Simon. Mum wants a salad recipe. She says she cant get it right.
I stopped dead on the street, read it a few times, then laughednot with malice, but genuinely. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our saga. They tried to destroy my family, to ruin me, and now they wanted a good salad.
I looked at the screen. In my new life, filled with exciting projects, respectful people, and quiet happiness, there was no room for old recipes or old grudges. I blocked the number without a second thought, as easily as flicking away a speck of dust.
Then I took a big gulp of juice. Sweet with a hint of bite, it tasted like freedom. And it was glorious.
