Youre not the mistressyoure the servant.
Eleanor, dear, just a little more of this splendid ladys salad, the voice of my motherinlaw, Margaret Hawthorne, was as sweet as jam but cut like a hot dash of Tabasco, a scorching pretense.
I nodded silently, taking the nearly empty salad bowl. The lady, my husband Simons thirdcousinonceremoved aunt, shot me a glare of irritation the kind you give a buzzing fly that has been circling your head for ten minutes.
I slipped through the kitchen like a ghost, trying to become invisible. It was Simons birthday, or rather his family was celebrating his birthday in my flatthe flat I pay for.
Laughter rippled from the drawingroom in jagged wavesthe buoyant bass of Uncle Jeremy, the sharp bark of his wife, and above it all the confident, almost militaristic timbre of Margarets voice. Simon was probably tucked in a corner, smiling tightly 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 a final confirmation landed in my inbox, I had crouched on the bathroom floor, hidden from view, staring at my phone screen. The project Id shepherded for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears and nearhopeless attemptshad boiled down to a single figure on the screen. Seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you stuck? my motherinlaw called impatiently. The guests are waiting!
I lifted the bowl and drifted back into the hall. The party was in full swing.
Youre so slow, Eleanor, my aunt chided, pushing her plate aside. Youre like a tortoise.
Simon flinched but said nothing. He hated any hint of a scandalthat was his favorite rule of life.
I set the salad on the table. Margaret, adjusting the flawless arrangement, announced loudly so everyone could hear:
Not everyone is cut out to be quick. Working in an office isnt the same as running a household. You sit at a computer thereand go home. Here you must think, hustle, bustle.
She scanned the guests with a victorious glance. All nodded. My cheeks began to burn.
Reaching for an empty glass, I brushed a fork. It clanged and fell to the floor.
Silence. For a breath, everything froze. A dozen eyes turned from the fork to me.
Margaret burst into a harsh, poisonous laugh.
See? I told you! Hands are claws.
She turned to the woman beside her, keeping her tone level, and added with a sneer:
I always said to Simon, she isnt his match. In this house youre the master, and she just a decorative asset. Bring, fetch. Not the mistress the servant.
The room erupted again, this time with a more spiteful chuckle. Simon looked away, pretending to be engrossed in his napkin.
And I I lifted the fork, steady, straightened my back, and for the first time all evening let a genuine smile spread across my face. Not forced, not politereal.
They had no idea that the world they built on my patience was about to crumble. My new world was just beginning, right now.
My smile knocked them off balance. Their laughter snapped off as abruptly as it had started. Margaret even stopped chewing, her jaw frozen in disbelief.
Instead of returning the fork to the table, I walked to the sink, dropped it in, grabbed a clean glass and poured myself some cherry juicethe very one Margaret called a luxury and a foolish waste of money.
Glass in hand, I returned to the sitting room and claimed the only empty seatnext to Simon. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Eleanor, the hot will cool! Margaret snapped back, her voice ringing with steel. You must serve the guests.
I’m sure Simon will manage, I said, taking a small sip, eyes never leaving her. Hes the head of the house. Let him prove it.
All eyes turned to Simon. He turned pale, then flushed, his nerves tightening as he shot pleading glances between me and his mother.
Yes of course, he stammered, stumbling toward the kitchen.
It was a tiny, sweet victory. The air grew thick, heavy.
Realising the direct blow hadnt landed, Margaret switched tactics, talking about the country house:
Weve decided to go to the cottage in July, the whole family. A month as usual. Breathe some fresh air.
Eleanor, youll need to start packing next week, move the preserves, get the house ready, she said as if the plan had been set for ages, as if my opinion didnt exist.
I placed my glass down slowly.
That sounds lovely, Mrs. Hawthorne, but I have other plans this summer, I replied, words hanging like ice cubes in a scorching day.
What other plans? Simon returned, balancing a tray of crooked hot plates. What are you dreaming up?
His voice trembled with irritation and bewilderment. 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 hardened with fury.
I have business plans. Im buying a new flat.
I paused, savoring the effect.
This ones become far too cramped, I added.
A deafening silence fell, broken first by Margarets short, croaking laugh.
Shes buying? With what money, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Spend your whole life working behind concrete walls?
Moms right, Ellie, Simon jumped in, seeking support, slamming his tray down, sauce splattering the tablecloth.
Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us all. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I swept my gaze over the guests. Each wore a look of contempt, distrust, as if I were an empty space that suddenly thought it mattered.
Why a mortgage? I asked, smiling gently. No, I dont like debt. Im paying cash.
Uncle Jeremy, whod been silent, snorted.
An inheritance, perhaps? Some old American millionaire aunt passed away?
The guests giggled, feeling once more like the masters of the situation. This upstart was bluffing.
Sure, you could say that, I replied, turning to Jeremy. Only the old aunt is me, and Im still alive.
I took a sip of juice, giving them time to digest.
Yesterday I sold my project. The very one you thought kept me stuck in an office. The company I built for three years. My startup.
I stared straight at Margaret.
The deal was twenty million pounds. The money is already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flatmaybe even a little house by the sea. No more cramped rooms.
A ringing hush settled over the room. Faces stretched, smiles melted, revealing shock and confusion.
Simon stared, eyes wide, mouth open but silent.
Margarets colour drained, her mask crumbling before their eyes.
I stood, 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 new accommodation. Im selling this flat too.
I walked to the door. No sound reached my back. They were paralyzed.
At the threshold I turned, casting one last look.
And you, Mrs. Hawthorne, my voice was firm and calm, the servants are tired today and need a rest.
Six months later, I was perched on the wide windowsill of my new flat. Beyond the floortoceiling glass, the evening city glittereda living, breathing creature that no longer seemed hostile.
It was mine. In my hand I held a glass of cherry juice. On my lap lay a laptop opened to the schematics of a new venturean architectural app that had already attracted its first investors.
I worked hard, but now it was 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 vanished. The habit of whispering, moving cautiously, guessing others moods faded. I no longer felt like a guest in my own home.
After that birthday, Simons phone never stopped ringing. He moved through stagesfurious threats (Youll regret this! Youre nothing without me!) to nightly, sobbing voice notes 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.
Margaret was predictable. She called, demanded justice, screamed that I had stolen her son. Once she tried to grab my 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 visited Simons social media. The photos showed him back at his parents housesame room, same carpet on the wall, a face twisted with perpetual resentment, as if the world were to blame for his failed life.
No guests now. No celebrations.
A few weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a message from an unknown number:
Ellie, hi. Its Simon. Mum wants a salad recipe. She says she cant get it right.
I stopped in the middle of the street, read it over and over, then laughednot with malice but genuine amusement. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our story. They tried to destroy my family, attempted to erase me, and now they wanted a tasty 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 added the number to the block list, without a second thought, as if discarding a stray speck of dust.
Then I took a deep gulp of the cherry juice. It was sweet with a faint tart edgethe taste of freedom. And it was wonderful.
