“Your place is at my feet, servant!” the mother-in-law would say. After her stroke, I hired her a carera woman shed despised her whole life.
“Did you move my frying pan again, Katie?”
The voice of the mother-in-law, Margaret Spencer, sliced through the air like a blade. It seeped into the kitchen walls, clung to the wooden countertop, and even the pattern on the tiles seemed to dull under its weight.
Katie slowly turned from the sink, wiping her hands on her apron. The frying panheavy, cast iron, a relic from Margarets paststood on the farthest burner, exactly where shed placed it that morning. Her one and only *correct* spot.
“I didnt touch it, Margaret.”
“Didnt touch it, did you? Then who did? The bloody house elf?” Margarets lips twisted into a smirk, her sharp gaze sweeping the kitchen. Katies kitchen. Or what used to be hers, before it became a battleground where she lost fight after fight.
Everything reeked of someone elses rigid order. The jars of spices werent arranged by name, as Katie preferred, but by heightlike soldiers on parade. The napkins werent hung on hooks but draped over the oven handle, a petty detail that gnawed at her. A suffocating, manufactured chaos, disguised as perfection.
“I was only asking,” Margaret said, plucking a cucumber from a plate and crunching it loudly. “In my own home, I assume Im allowed to ask.”
*Her* home. Katie heard that phrase ten times a day. Never mind that the flat belonged to Oliver, her husband. *Their* flat. But Margaret acted as if it were her ancestral estate, and they were just passing through.
Katie stayed silent. Arguing was like banging your head against a brick wall. She turned back to the dishes. The water murmured softly, washing away soap sudsand the tears she didnt let fall.
That evening, Oliver came home. The husband. The son. He kissed his mothers cheek, then brushed his lips absently against Katies hair.
“Dead on my feet. Whats for dinner?”
“Roast chicken and potatoes,” Katie answered without looking up.
“Again?” Margaret piped up from her perch on the stool. “Ollie, love, I told youyou need proper meat. She feeds you nothing but scraps. Youll waste away.”
Oliver sighed and trudged off to the bedroom. He never interfered. His stance was simpleand convenient: *Thats womens business. Sort it out yourselves.* He didnt see a war. Just petty squabbles between two women he supposedly loved equally.
Later, when they were alone in the kitchen, Margaret stepped close. She smelled of expensive perfume and something heavier, more suffocating.
“Listen here, girl,” she hissed, low enough that Oliver wouldnt hear. “Youre nobody here. Just an accessory to my son. An incubator for my future grandchildrennothing more.”
She snatched a napkin and wiped at an invisible stain.
“Remember this: your place is at my feet. Youre the help. Nothing else.”
Right then, her face twisted. The corner of her mouth sagged. Her hand, still clutching the napkin, dropped limply. Margaret swayed, then crumpled to the floor.
The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic and other peoples grief. Oliver sat with his head in his hands.
“Stroke. The doctor says shell need full-time care. Right sides paralyzed.”
He looked up at Katie with red-rimmed eyes. Not painjust irritation and cold calculation.
“Katie, I cant do this. Work, you know? Its on you now. Youre the wifeits your duty.”
He said it like handing off a baton in a race hed just quit.
Hed visit. Supervise. But the daily grind? Hers alone.
Katie stared at him and feltnothing. No pity, no hurt. Just emptiness. A scorched field.
She nodded.
Back home, in the hollowed-out but now silent kitchen, Katie walked to the window. Outside, on the playground, Veronicatheir fifth-floor neighbourwas playing with her little girl.
Young, loud, the kind of woman Margaret had loathed with a passionfor her short skirts, her laughter, her *cheeky* smile.
Katie watched her for a long time. Then, slowly, a plan took shape. Cold. Precise. Brutal. She pulled out her phone and found Veronicas number.
“Veronica? Hi. I need a carer for my mother-in-law.”
They brought Margaret home a week later. She sat slumped in a wheelchair, wrapped in a blanket. Her right side useless, her speech slurredbut her eyes
Her eyes were the same. Sharp. Commanding. Full of undimmed fury.
When Veronica walked in, those eyes flared like they could set the curtains ablaze. She *knew* her.
“Good afternoon, Margaret,” Veronica said with her most disarming smile. “Im Veronica. Ill be looking after you now.”
Margaret made a guttural sound. Her good hand clenched.
“Katie, love, give us a moment,” Veronica said gently. “Me and our new patient need to get acquainted.”
Katie left without a word. She didnt eavesdrop. Just imagining it was enough.
Veronica was the perfect weapon. She had a rare gifttotal immunity to hatred.
First, she flung the window wide.
“God, fresh air! Lets air out this dungeon, shall we?”
Then she turned on the radio. Cheesy popthe kind Margaret called *mindless noise*. Margaret groaned, eyes rolling. Veronica, unfazed, spooned soup into her mouth, ignoring the feeble attempts to push her away. It dribbled down Margarets chin, staining her silk nightgown.
“Honestly, youre worse than my toddler,” Veronica teased. “Make a mess, and Ill change you. No skin off my nose.”
Oliver visited in the evenings. Before he arrived, Margaret transformed. Her eyes welled with cosmic sorrow. Shed reach for him, mutter, glare at Veronica.
“Mum, dont fret,” Oliver would say, patting her hand but avoiding Veronicas gaze. “Shes good, yeah? Shell take care of you.”
Hed bring oranges, stay half an hour, then leaverelief palpable as soon as the front door shut.
Katie watched from the sidelines. She hardly entered Margarets room. Just handed Veronica money and brief instructions:
“Switch the photos on her dresser today. And put lilies in the vase. She hates the smell.”
Veronica obliged with gusto. She rearranged furniture, read romance novels aloud. Once, she brought her daughter, Emily. The little girl laughed, darting around the room, touching Margarets prized porcelain figurines.
Margaret let out a silent scream. Tears of helplessness rolled down her cheeks. She looked at Katiepleading. For the first time ever, begging her daughter-in-law.
Katie met her gaze, cold and calm.
“Veronica, make sure Emily doesnt break anything,” she said, then walked out. Revenge was a dish best served by someone elses hands.
The ending came unexpectedly. One day, while Veronica *tidied* the wardrobe, a wooden box tumbled from the top shelf.
Letters, photos, a thick notebook spilled out.
“Katie, come here,” Veronica called. “Think we struck gold.”
Margaret let out a long, mournful wail at the sight. Katie picked up the notebook. A diary.
That night, she sat at the kitchen table and opened it.
What she read changed everything.
The diary wasnt written by the tyrant Margaretbut by young, lovestruck *Margaret*, whod adored her first husband, a test pilot named Anthony, beyond reason. His death. Left alone, seven months pregnant.
She named their son Anthony. Two years later, during a flu outbreak, the boy died. *”The sky took my husband. The earth took my son.”*
Years of hardship followed. A second husbandOlivers fatherquiet, weak, a marriage of desperation. Olivers birthher last hope.
And the terrorthat hed grow up as spineless as his father. Shed tried to harden him with cruelty.
*”I wanted to raise a soldier. Instead, I got Oliver.”*
She wrote of her envytoward women who laughed loudly, like the girl from the fifth floor. She hated them, yes. But mostly, she hated her own broken life.
Katie read all night.
The next morning, she handed the diary to Veronica.
“Read it.”
Veronica sat on the garden bench, turning pages. When she returned, her face was solemn.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered. “Poor woman. But Katieit doesnt excuse her.”
“No,” Katie agreed. “But Im done. This revengeits pointless. Like kicking a broken thing.”
From that day, everything changed.
Veronica stopped the pop music. Instead, she played old recordssongs from the diary. She dug out a book of Yeats poetry. At first, Margaret resistedbut once, when Veronica read aloud, a tear slid down her cheek.
Katie started visiting too. She brought tea, sat quietly, talked about her day.
When Oliver came home, he froze.
“Whys it so quiet? Mum needs cheering up!”
“She needs peace, Ollie,” Katie said softly. “And she needs her son. Not a visitor. A proper son.”
She handed him the diary.
“Read it. Maybe youll finally see who she really is.”
He took it and left. Katie didnt call. She just waited.
He returned two days laterolder, shadows under his eyes. He stood in the hallway a long time before entering Margarets room. Katie heard him whisper:
“His name was Anthony, wasnt he? And my brother Anthony too?”
Margaret flinched. Fear flickered in her eyes.
“I never knew, Mum. Any of it. I thought you were always strong.” He laughed bitterly. “You spent your life terrified Id be weak. And I was. Hid behind you. Behind Katie. Just floated along. Im sorry, Mum.”
Margaret squeezed his handweak, but deliberate.
When Oliver came out, Katie was at the stove. He stood beside her.
“Ive booked Mum into rehab. Ill take her. Pay Veronica myself. Its my responsibility. Always was.” He paused. “Katie I dont know how to fix this. But I want to try. If youll let me.”
She stopped, looked at him. Real pain in his eyes.
“Wash your hands,” she said evenly. “And get the other chopping board. Youre on cucumber duty.”
For a second, he didnt move. Thena faint smile.
**Two years later**
The kitchen was golden with autumn light. The air smelled of baked apples and cinnamon. Katie pulled a dish from the oven.
Oliver walked in, guiding Margaret by the arm. She moved slowly, leaning on a canebut she walked. Her speech was still halting, but clear.
“Mind the step, Mum,” Oliver murmured.
They sat at the table.
“Smells lovely,” Margaret said, eyeing the apples. A genuine compliment.
Katie set a plate before her.
“Help yourself.”
She hadnt forgiven. Hadnt forgotten a single word. But she *understood*. Behind every monster, a wounded person. That understanding didnt bring lovebut it brought peace.
Her marriage wasnt a fairy tale. They still argued. But Oliver didnt run. He stayed. Listened. Tried.
He was learningto be a son. A husband. Maybe, soon, a father.
Katie hadnt told him yet. She was waitingnot for drama, just the right moment. To say it calmly, like the natural next step in this life they were rebuilding.
She took a baked apple from the dish. Warm. Soft.
She hadnt won the war.
Shed just survived itcome out the other side. Not broken. Not bitter. Just whole.
And for now, that was enough.
