You’re not the lady of the houseyoure the servant, says Aunt Maud, sweetvoiced as jam but cutting like hot sauce, her words dripping with false kindness. I nod silently, taking the almost empty salad bowl. The lady of the house, my husband Jamess thirdcousin, eyes me with the irritation one reserves for a persistent fly buzzing around ones head.
I glide through the kitchen, trying to be invisible. Its Jamess birthday today, or rather his familys celebration in my flatthe flat Im paying the mortgage on. Laughter ripples from the sitting room, the deep bass of Uncle Ians jokes mixed with his wifes sharp bark. Over it all, Margaret Whitakers confident, almost commanding tone fills the air. James must be tucked in a corner, smiling tightly, nodding timidly.
I fill the bowl, garnish it with a sprig of dill. My hands move on autopilot while one thought loops in my mind: twenty. Twenty million. Yesterday evening, after the final confirmation landed in my inbox, I crouched on the bathroom floor, hidden from view, staring at my phone. The project Id shepherded for three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears, and nearhopeless attemptscollapsed into a single figure on the screen. Seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you stuck? Margaret snaps impatiently. The guests are waiting!
I carry the bowl back to the hall. The party is in full swing.
Youre as slow as molasses, Betsy, Aunt Maud says, pushing her plate aside. Honestly, youre a turtle.
James flinches but says nothing. He hates dramathats his golden rule.
I set the salad down. Margaret, straightening the perfect arrangement, announces loudly so everyone hears: Not everyone can be quick. Working an office job isnt the same as running a household. Here you must think, hustle, and keep busy. She scans the guests with a triumphant glance. Everyone nods. My cheeks start to burn.
Reaching for an empty glass, I accidentally knock a fork. It clatters onto the floor.
Silence. For a heartbeat everyone freezes, eyes darting from the fork to me.
Margaret bursts into a harsh, venomous laugh. See? I told you! Her hands are all claws.
She turns to the woman beside her, keeping her tone sharp, and adds: I always told James: she isnt his match. In this house youre the master, and she just a decorative piece. Bring, serve. Not the ladyjust the servant.
Laughter erupts again, more gloating than jovial. James averts his gaze, pretending to be engrossed with a napkin. I pick up the fork, straighten my back, and, for the first time all evening, smilegenuinely, not forced.
They have no idea that the world built on my patience is about to crumble, while mine is only just beginning. My smile throws them off balance. Their laughter dies as abruptly as it started. Margarets jaw freezes in bewilderment.
Instead of returning the fork to the table, I walk to the kitchen, drop it in the sink, grab a clean glass, and pour myself a glass of cherry juicethe pricey one Mom calls a delight and a foolish expense.
Glass in hand, I slip back into the living room and take the only free seatnext to James. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Betsy, the hot stuff is cooling! Margaret snaps back, her voice still edged with steel. You need to serve the guests.
Im sure James can handle it, I say, taking a small sip without looking away. Hes the head of the house. Let him prove it.
All eyes swivel to James. He pales, then flushes, stammering, throwing pleading looks first at me, then at his mother.
I yes, of course, he mutters, stumbling toward the kitchen.
Its a tiny, sweet victory. The room feels dense, heavy.
Realising a direct attack wont work, Margaret shifts tactics, talking about the country house: Were planning a July getaway to the cottage, a month as usual. Fresh air.
Aunt Maud, you need to start packing next week, move the supplies, ready the house, she says, as if the decision had been made ages ago, ignoring my opinion entirely.
I set my glass down slowly. Sounds lovely, Margaret, but I have other plans this summer. My words linger like ice cubes in a summer drink.
What other plans? James returns with a tray of uneven plates. What are you dreaming up?
His voice trembles with irritation and confusion. My refusal feels like a declaration of war to him.
Im not dreaming, I reply calmly, first looking at him, then at his mother, whose stare now burns with fury. I have business plans. Im buying a new flat.
A beat passes, letting the impact settle. This place has become too cramped.
A deafening silence follows until Margaret lets out a short, harsh laugh. Shes buying? With what money, a thirtyyear mortgage? Working your whole life for concrete walls?
Moms right, Betsy, James jumps in, seeking support. He slams the tray down, sauce splashing the tablecloth. Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I sweep my gaze over the guests. Each face bears disdain, suspicion, as if I were an empty space that suddenly decided it mattered.
Why a mortgage? I smile softly. No, I dont like debt. Im paying cash.
Uncle Ian, who had been silent, snorts. Inheritance? Some old rich aunt in America passed away?
The guests chuckle, feeling theyre still in control. You could say that, I reply, turning to him. Except the old aunt is me, and Im still alive.
I take a sip of juice, giving them a moment to absorb the truth. Yesterday I sold my startupthe one you all thought kept me stuck in an office. The deal was twenty million pounds. The moneys already in my account, so Im buying a flat. Maybe even a seaside cottage, so Im never cramped again.
A ringing silence spreads. Faces stretch, smiles vanish, revealing shock and confusion. James stares, mouth open, no sound escaping. Margarets complexion fades; her mask crumbles.
I stand, grab my handbag from the chair. James, happy birthday. This is my gift to you. Im moving out tomorrow. You have a week to find a new place. Im also selling this flat.
I head for the door. No sound reaches my ears; theyre frozen. At the threshold I turn and deliver my final line. And Margaret, the servant is tired and needs a break.
Half a year later, I sit on the wide windowsill of my new flat. Beyond the floortoceiling glass, the city lights flickera living, breathing organism that no longer feels hostile. Its mine. In my hand is a glass of cherry juice. On my lap lies a laptop with the blueprints of a new architectural app that has already attracted its first investors.
I work a lot, but now its a joy because the work fills me rather than drains me. For the first time in years I breathe fully. The constant tension that haunted me is gone. I no longer whisper, move cautiously, or guess others moods. I no longer feel like a guest in my own home.
After that birthday, Jamess phone never stops buzzing. He swings from furious threatsYoull regret this! Youre nothing without me!to latenight voice messages whining about how good things used to be. Listening, I feel only cold emptiness. His good was built on my silence. The divorce is swift; he makes no demands.
Margaret remains predictable. She calls, demanding justice, shouting that Ive stolen her son. Once she ambushes me at the business centre where I rent office space, tries to grab my arm, and I simply walk past her without a word. Her power ends where my patience ends.
Sometimes, in a strange nostalgic mood, I peek at Jamess social media. The photos show him back at his parents house, the same room, the same carpet, his face perpetually sour, as if the world owes him for his failed life.
No guests remain. No celebrations either.
A few weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I get a message from an unknown number: Betsy, hi. Its James. Mum wants a salad recipe. Says she cant get it right. I stop midstreet, read it several times, then laughgenuinely, not spitefully. The absurdity of the request feels like the perfect epilogue to our saga. They tried to destroy my family, to ruin me, and now they just want a good salad.
I glance at my screen. In my new life, filled with exciting projects, respectable people, and quiet happiness, theres no room for old recipes or old grudges. I add the number to the block list without hesitation, like discarding a speck of dust.
Then I take a big sip of my cherry juice. Its sweet with a faint tart edge. It tastes like freedom, and its beautiful.
