25May
Im not the lady of the house Im the servant
Olivia, love, just a little more of this splendid ladys salad, my motherinlaw, Miriam Clarke, cooed, her voice as sweet as jam but cutting like hot Tabasco, a burn hidden behind false kindness. I nodded silently, taking the almost empty salad bowl. The womanmy husband Jamess thirdcousin aunt, Margaretshot me a look of irritation, the sort you give a persistent fly thats been circling your head for ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen like a ghost, trying to be unseen. It was Jamess birthday, or rather his familys celebration of his birthday in my flatthe flat Im paying the mortgage on. Laughter bubbled from the lounge in jagged bursts: Uncle Johns hearty bass voice, the sharp bark of Susans terrier, and above it all the firm, almost commanding timbre of Miriams commands. James was probably tucked away in a corner, smiling tightlipped and nodding timidly.
I filled the bowl, arranging a sprig of dill with the precision of a ritual. My hands moved on autopilot while the number twenty swirled in my head. Twenty. Twenty million.
The night before, after the final confirmation landed in my inbox, I had perched on the bathroom floor, hidden from anyones eye, staring at my phone screen. The project Id nurtured for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, and nearhopeless attemptshad been reduced to a single figure on the screen: seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you stuck? my motherinlaw snapped impatiently. The guests are waiting!
I carried the bowl back into the hall. The party was in full swing.
Youre so slow, Olivia, Margaret said, pushing her plate aside. Youre like a tortoise.
James flinched but kept silenthe never wants a scene, his favourite life rule. I set the salad on the table. Miriam, adjusting the perfect placement, announced loudly enough for everyone to hear:
Not everyone is born quick. An office job isnt housekeeping. You sit at a computer there and go home. Here you must think, hustle, and manage.
She swept the room with a triumphant glance; everyone nodded. My cheeks flushed.
Reaching for an empty glass, I knocked a fork off the edge. It clanged on the floor.
Silence fell. For a heartbeat everyone froze, eyes darting from the fork to me.
Miriam burst out laughingloud, harsh, venomous.
See? I told you! Her hands are claws. She turned to the woman beside her, voice still sharp, and added with a sneer:
I always said to James: she isnt your match. In this house youre the master, and she shes just a decorative asset. Bring, fetch, serve. Not the ladyjust the help.
Laughter rippled through the room, now tinged with schadenfreude. James looked away, pretending to be busy with a napkin.
I lifted the fork, stood straight, and for the first time all eveningsmiled. Not forced, not polite, but genuine. They had no idea that the world built on my patience was about to crumble, and that my new world was only just beginning.
My smile knocked them off balance. Their chuckles died as suddenly as they had started. Miriams jaw froze in disbelief, her chewing stopped midbite.
Instead of returning the fork to the table, I walked to the kitchen, plunged it into the sink, grabbed a clean glass and poured myself a goblet of cherry juicethe very drink Miriam dismissed as a frivolous indulgence and a moneydraining folly.
Glass in hand, I returned to the lounge and took the only free seatright beside James. He stared at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Olivia, the hot drinks are getting cold! Miriam snapped, her voice again edged with steel. We need to serve the guests.
Im sure James can manage, I said, sipping, eyes never leaving hers. Hes the head of the house. Lets see him prove it.
All eyes snapped to James. He turned pale, then flushed, nervous, casting pleading glances between me and his mother.
I yes, of course, he stammered, stumbling toward the kitchen.
A small, sweet victory. The room grew heavy, the air thick.
Realising the direct attack hadnt landed, Miriam shifted tactics. She talked about the summer cottage:
Were planning a family trip to the country house in Julyjust a month, as usual. Well get some fresh air.
Olivia, youll need to start packing next week, move the supplies, get the house ready. She spoke as if the decision had been made long ago, as though my opinion didnt exist.
I set my glass down slowly.
That sounds lovely, Miriam, I replied, but I have other plans for the summer.
My words hung in the air like ice cubes on a hot day.
What other plans? James returned, balancing a tray of crooked plates. What are you dreaming up?
His voice trembled with irritation and confusion. To him, my refusal sounded like a declaration of war.
Im not dreaming, I said calmly, first looking at him, then at his mother, whose stare darkened with fury. I have business plans. Im buying a new flat.
A pause, letting the impact settle.
This place has become too cramped.
Silence roared. Miriam was the first to break it, letting out a short, hoarse laugh.
Buying? With what money, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Spend your whole life working behind concrete walls?
Moms right, Lena, James immediately defended, his support obvious. He set the tray down with a clatter, sauce splattering the tablecloth.
Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us all. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scanned the faces of the guests. Each bore a look of contempt, distrust, as if I were an empty space that had suddenly imagined itself important.
Why a mortgage? I asked, smiling gently. No, I dont like debt. Im paying cash.
Uncle John, whod been silent until now, snorted.
An inheritance, perhaps? Did some American millionaire aunt pass away?
The guests giggled, feeling once again like they owned the room.
You could say that, I replied, turning to him. Except the aunt is me, and Im very much alive.
I took a sip of juice, giving them time to absorb the truth.
Yesterday I sold my project. The very one you all thought kept me stuck in an office. The startup I built for three years. I looked straight at Miriam.
The deal was worth twenty million pounds. The money is already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flatmaybe even a little house by the sea, so I wont feel cramped again.
A ringing silence fell over the room. Faces tightened, smiles vanished, replaced by bewilderment and shock. James stared, eyes widened, mouth open but soundless. Miriams complexion drained; her mask crumbled before our eyes.
I rose, grabbed my handbag from the chair.
James, 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 for one last glance.
And, Miriam, my voice was steady, the help is tired and needs a break.
Six months later, I sit on the wide windowsill of my new flat. Beyond the floortoceiling glass, the evening city glittersa living, breathing creature that no longer feels hostile. Its mine. In my hand I hold a glass of cherry juice. On my lap lies a laptop, open to sketches of my next venturean architectural app that has already attracted its first investors.
I work hard, but now its a joy, because the work fills me instead of draining me. For the first time in years I breathe fully. The constant tension that had shadowed me for years has vanished. No more whispering, no more tiptoeing, no more guessing others moods. I no longer feel like a guest in my own home.
After that birthday, Jamess calls never stopped. He went through the full range: angry threats (Youll regret this! Youre nothing without me!) to nightly voice messages, sobbing about how good things used to be. Listening, I felt only a cold void. His good was built on my silence. The divorce was swift; he made no demands.
Miriam was predictable. She called, demanded justice, screamed that I had robbed her son. Once she tried to grab me by the arm outside the business centre where I lease an office. I simply walked past her, saying nothing. Her power ended where my patience ended.
Sometimes, in strange bouts of nostalgia, I scroll through Jamess social media. The photos show him back with his parents, the same room, the same rug on the wall, his face twisted in perpetual resentment, as if the whole world were to blame for his failed life. No guests, no celebrations anymore.
A few weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a text from an unknown number:
Olivia, hi. Its James. Mum wants a salad recipe. Says she cant get it right.
I stopped in the middle of the street, read it a few times, then laughednot with malice, but genuinely. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our story. They tried to destroy my family, to erase me, and now they wanted a decent salad.
I looked at the screen. In my new life, filled with exciting projects, respectable people, and quiet happiness, there was no room for old recipes or old grudges. I blocked the number without hesitation, as if shooing away a speck of dust.
Then I took a big sip of my juice. It was sweet, with a faint sharp note. It tasted of freedom, and it was wonderful.
