«You’re not the lady of the house you’re a servant»
Elsie, dear, just a little more of this wonderful ladys salad, Margarets voice was sweet as jam but cut like hot Tabasco, a burning pretense.
I nodded silently, lifting an almost empty salad bowl. The lady, my husband Simons thirdcousin aunt, gave me a glare thick with annoyance the kind youd 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 broke from the lounge in choppy waves: the cheerful bass of Uncle Jeremy, his wifes sharp bark, and above it all the firm, almost commanding timbre of Margaret. My husband was probably tucked in a corner, smiling tightly and nodding timidly.
I filled the bowl, tucking a sprig of dill on top. My hands moved on autopilot while one thought spun in my head: twenty twenty million.
The night before, after the final confirmation landed in my inbox, I had crouched on the bathroom floor, hidden from view, and stared at my phone screen. The project Id nurtured for three years hundreds of sleepless nights, endless negotiations, tears and nearhopeless attempts boiled down to a single number on the screen. Seven zeros. My freedom.
Where are you getting stuck? Margaret snapped. The guests are waiting!
I carried the bowl back to the hall. The party was in full swing.
Slow as molasses, Elsie, my aunt teased, pushing her plate aside. Just a turtle.
Simon flinched but said nothing. He never liked a scene his favorite life rule.
I set the salad on the table. Margaret, straightening the perfect arrangement, announced loudly enough for everyone to hear:
Not everyone is meant to be swift. Office work isnt housekeeping. You sit at a computer thereand then home. Here you must think, manage, bustle.
She swept the room with a triumphant glance. Everyone 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 heartbeat everyone froze. Ten eyes darted from the fork to me.
Margaret laughed loud, harsh, poisonous.
See? I told you! Hands like hooks.
She turned to the lady beside her, kept her tone, and added mockingly:
I always said to Simon: shes not your match. In this house youre the master, and she just a decorative dowry. Serve, bring. Not the lady the servant.
Laughter burst again, even more gleeful. I looked at Simon. He averted his gaze, pretending to be engrossed with a napkin.
And I I lifted the fork, stood straight, and for the first time all evening actually smiled not forced, not polite, but genuine.
They had no idea that the world built on my patience was about to crumble. My new world was only just beginning.
My smile knocked them off balance. The laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started. Margarets jaw froze in bewilderment.
Instead of putting the fork back, I walked to the kitchen, dropped it in the sink, grabbed a clean glass and poured myself cherry juicethe very pricey elixir Margaret called bliss and a foolish expense.
Glass in hand, I returned to the lounge and claimed the only free seat next to Simon. He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
Elsie, hot drinks are cooling! Margaret snapped back, her voice again ringing with steel. You must serve the guests.
I’m sure Simon can manage, I said, taking a small sip without taking my eyes off her. He is the master of the house. Let him prove it.
All eyes snapped to Simon. He turned pale, then flushed, his nerves spilling into pleading glances at me and then at his mother.
I yes, of course, he stammered, stumbling toward the kitchen.
It was a tiny, sweet victory. The air grew heavy, thick.
Realising a direct blow had failed, Margaret shifted tactics. She spoke of the countryside retreat:
Well all go to the cottage in the Cotswolds in July. A month, as usual. Fresh air.
Elsie, youll need to start packing next week, move the supplies, prepare the house.
She spoke as if it were already decided, as if my opinion didnt exist.
I set my glass down slowly.
Sounds lovely, Mrs. Margaret, I said. Only I have other plans this summer.
The words hung like ice cubes in a scorching day.
What other plans? Simon returned with a tray of unevenly placed hot plates. What are you dreaming up?
His voice trembled with irritation and confusion. He was so used to me acquiescing that my refusal sounded like a declaration of war.
Im not dreaming, I replied calmly, first looking at him, then at his mother, whose eyes had turned fierce.
I have business plans. Im buying a new flat.
I paused, savoring the effect.
The one Im in now has become far too cramped.
A deafening silence settled, broken first by Margarets short, croaking laugh.
Buying? With what funds, may I ask? A thirtyyear mortgage? Spend your whole life behind concrete walls?
Moms right, Els, Simon immediately chimed in, sensing support. He slammed the tray down, sauce splattering the tablecloth.
Stop this circus. Youre embarrassing us all. What flat? Have you lost your mind?
I scanned the guests faces. Each wore contemptuous distrust. They stared at me as if I were an empty space that suddenly thought itself important.
Why a mortgage? I smiled softly. No, I dont like debt. Im paying cash.
Uncle Jeremy, who had been silent, snorted.
An inheritance, perhaps? Did a millionaire aunt in America pass away?
The guests giggled. They still felt like they owned the room. This upstart was bluffing.
Yes, you could say that, I said, turning to him. Except the aunt is me, and Im still alive.
I took a sip of juice, giving them time to digest.
Yesterday I sold my project. The one you all thought kept me stuck in the office. The startup I built for three years. My own venture.
I stared straight at Margaret.
The deal was twenty million pounds. The money is already in my account. So yes, Im buying a flat. Maybe even a seaside cottage. No more cramped quarters.
A ringing silence filled the room. Faces stretched, smiles vanished, revealing shock and bewilderment.
Simon stared, his eyes widening, mouth open but soundless.
Margarets complexion faded slowly. Her mask crumbled before their eyes.
I stood, grabbed my handbag from the chair.
Simon, happy birthday. This is 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 headed for the door. Not a single sound reached my back. They were paralyzed.
At the threshold I turned and gave one last look.
And, Mrs. Margaret, my voice was firm and calm, the servant is tired and wants a rest.
Six months later, I sat on the wide windowsill of my new flat. Beyond the floortoceiling glass, the evening city glimmereda living, breathing creature no longer hostile.
It was mine. In my hand I held a glass of cherry juice. On my knees lay a laptop open 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 vanished. The habits of speaking softly, moving carefully, guessing others moods evaporated. I no longer felt like a guest in my own home.
After that birthday, the phone never stopped ringing. Simon went through every stage: raging threats (Youll regret this! Youre nothing without me!) to nightly, sobbing voice messages about how wonderful their past had been.
Listening, I felt only cold emptiness. His wonderful was built on my silence. The divorce was swift; he made no demands.
Mrs. Margaret was predictable. She called, demanded justice, screamed that I had stolen her son. Once she cornered me outside the business centre where I lease an office, tried to grab my arm. I simply walked past her, saying nothing.
Her power ended where my patience ended.
Sometimes, in strange bouts of nostalgia, I would glance at Simons social media. Photos showed him back at his parents house, the same room, the same carpet on the wall, his face twisted with perpetual resentment, as if the whole world blamed him for his failed life.
No guests remain. No celebrations.
A few weeks ago, returning from a meeting, I received a message from an unknown number:
Els, hi. Its Simon. Mum wants a salad recipe. Says she cant get it right.
I stopped in the middle of the street, read it several times, and then laughednot spitefully, but genuinely. The absurdity of the request was the perfect epilogue to our saga. They tried to destroy my family, tried to erase me, and now they wanted a tasty salad.
I looked at the screen. In my new life, filled with interesting 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 hesitation, as if discarding a speck of dust.
Then I took a big gulp of juice. It was sweet with a faint bitter edge. It tasted of freedom. And it was glorious.
You’re Not the Mistress — You’re the Help
