You’re not the lady of the houseyoure the servant,
Ellie, dear, just a little more of this splendid ladys salad, says my motherinlaw, Dorothy Whitmore, her voice sugary as jam but cutting like hot saucesharp with pretence.
I give a silent nod, taking the almost empty salad bowl. The lady, my husband Simons thirdcousin aunt, fixes me with an irritated starelike someone watching a persistent fly buzzing overhead for ten minutes.
I glide through the kitchen, trying to be invisible. Its Simons birthday today, or rather his family is celebrating his birthday in my flatthe flat I pay the mortgage on.
Laughter rolls from the sitting room in uneven burstsUncle Georges booming bass, the sharp bark of his dog, Bella. Over it all drifts Dorothys confident, almost commanding tone. Simon probably sits in a corner, smiling tightly and nodding shyly.
I fill the bowl, garnish it with a sprig of dill. My hands move on autopilot, while the thought loops in my head: twenty. Twenty million.
Yesterday evening, after the final confirmation landed in my inbox, I sat on the bathroom floor where no one could see, staring at my phone. The project Id built over three yearshundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears and nearhopeless attemptshad boiled down to a single figure on a screen. Seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you stuck? Dorothy snaps. The guests are waiting!
I lug the bowl back into the hall. The party is in full swing.
Slow as a snail, Ellie, my aunt chides, pushing her plate aside. Youre practically a turtle.
Simon flinches but says nothing. He hates any hint of a scenehis favorite life rule.
I set the salad down. Dorothy, adjusting the perfect layout, announces loudly so everyone can hear:
Not everyone can be quick. Office work isnt about running a household. You sit at a computerthen you go home. Here you have to think, plan, hustle.
She sweeps the room with a triumphant glance. Everyone nods. My cheeks start to burn.
Reaching for an empty glass, I knock a fork off the table. It clatters onto the floor.
Silence. For a heartbeat everyone freezes. Ten pairs of eyes dart from the fork to me.
Dorothy bursts out laughingloud, harsh, poisonous.
See? I told you! Those hands are claws.
She turns to the woman beside her, tone unchanged, adds with a sneer:
I always told Simon: she isnt his match. In this house youre the boss, and she just background décor. Serve, bring, fetch. Not the ladyjust the servant.
Laughter erupts again, even more malicious. Simon averts his gaze, pretending to be busy with a napkin.
I pick up the fork, stand straight, and for the first time all evening, I smilegenuine, not forced. They have no idea that the world they built on my patience is about to collapse. And mine is just beginning, right now.
My smile throws them off balance. The giggles die as suddenly as they began. Even Dorothy stops chewing, her jaw frozen in confusion.
Instead of returning the fork to the table, I walk to the kitchen, drop it in the sink, fetch a clean glass, and pour myself some cherry juicethe pricey brand Dorothy calls a blissful indulgence and a moneydraining folly.
Glass in hand, I slip back into the lounge and take the only free seatnext to Simon. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Ellie, hot drinks are getting cold! Dorothy snaps back, her voice still edged with steel. You need to serve the guests.
Im sure Simon can manage, I say, taking a modest sip, eyes still on her. Hes the head of the house. Let him prove it.
All eyes swivel to Simon. He turns pale, then flushed, his nerves visible as he shuffles pleading glances between me and his mother.
I yes, of course, he stammers, stumbling toward the kitchen.
Its a small, sweet victory. The room feels heavy, thick with tension.
Realising the direct attack failed, Dorothy shifts tactics, talking about the summer house:
Weve decided to go to the cottage in July. A month, as usual. Fresh air.
Ellie, youll need to start packing next weekmove the supplies, get the house ready.
She says it as if it were settled long ago, as if my opinion doesnt exist.
I set my glass down slowly.
It sounds lovely, Dorothy, I reply, but I have other plans this summer.
The words hang like ice cubes on a hot day.
What other plans? Simon returns with a tray of uneven plates of hot food. What are you dreaming up?
His voice trembles with irritation and confusion. Hes used to me acquiescing; my refusal feels like a declaration of war.
Im not dreaming, I say calmly, first meeting his eyes, then Dorothys, which now burns with fury. I have business plans. Im buying a new flat.
A pause, letting the impact settle.
This place has become too cramped.
A deafening silence follows, broken only by Dorothys short, croaking laugh.
Shes buying? With what money, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Will she spend her whole life working behind concrete walls?
Moms right, Ellie, Simon jumps in, seeking support, slamming the tray down so sauce splatters the tablecloth. Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scan the faces aroundeach one wearing contemptuous doubt. They stare at me as if I were an empty space that suddenly thinks its something more.
Why a mortgage? I smile gently. I dont like debt. Im paying cash.
Uncle George, whod been silent, snorts. Inheritance, perhaps? Did a millionaire aunt in America pass away?
The guests giggle, feeling once more like the masters of the room. This upstart is bluffing.
You could say that, I reply, turning to him. Except the aunt is me, and Im still alive.
I take another sip of juice, giving them time to grasp the meaning.
Yesterday I sold my projectthe one you all think kept me stuck in an office. The startup I built for three years. It went for twenty million. The moneys already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flat, maybe even a seaside cottage, so Im not cramped.
A ringing silence fills the room. Smiles melt, exposing shock and bewilderment. Simons eyes widen, his mouth opens but no sound escapes. Dorothys complexion drains; her mask crumbles before their eyes.
I stand, grab 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 head for the door. No one says a word. Theyre paralysed.
At the threshold I turn one last time.
And you, Dorothy, my voice is firm and calm, the servant is tired and wants 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. It belongs to me. In my hand I hold a glass of cherry juice. On my lap rests a laptop open to 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 instead of draining me. For the first time in years I breathe fully. The constant tension that haunted me for years fades. The habit of moving quietly, guessing others moods, pretending to be a guest in my own home disappears.
Since that birthday, Simons phone never stops ringing. He moves through stagesfrom angry threats (Youll regret this! Youre nothing without me!) to latenight voice messages sobbing about how good things used to be. Listening, I feel only cold emptiness. His good was built on my silence. The divorce goes quickly; he makes no demands.
Dorothy remains predictable. She calls, demanding justice, shouting that I steal her son. Once she ambushes me at the business centre where I lease my office, tries to grab my arm. I simply walk around her, saying nothing. Her power ends where my patience ends.
Sometimes, in a strange nostalgic mood, I look at Simons social media. The photos show him back at his parents housesame room, same carpet on the wall, his face frozen in perpetual resentment, as if the world is to blame for his failed life. No guests, no celebrations.
A couple of weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I get a message from an unknown number:
Ellie, hi. Its Simon. Mum needs a salad recipe. She says she cant get it right.
I stop in the street, read it several times, then laughnot with malice but genuinely. The absurdity of the request becomes the perfect epilogue to our story. They tried to destroy my family, to wipe me out, and now they want a good salad.
I look at the screen. In my new life, filled with interesting projects, respectful people, and quiet happiness, theres no room for old recipes or old grudges. I block the number without hesitation, as if sweeping away a stray speck of dust.
Then I take a big gulp of juice. Its sweet with a faint bitea taste of freedom. And it is wonderful.
