**Monday**
“You’re just the help,” my mother-in-law sneered, unaware that I owned the very restaurant where shed washed dishes for ten years.
“Well, happy now?” Her voice dripped venom through the phone, not even bothering to hide it.
I shifted the phone to my other ear, continuing to sign the thick stack of invoices in front of me.
“Damians ignoring my calls again. Thats your doing, isnt it? Of course it is. What lies have you filled his head with now, you useless cuckoo?”
Margaret Anne Whitmore. My mother-in-law. A dishwasher at my flagship restaurant, *The Golden Pheasant*. For a decade, shed worked there, convinced her daughter-in-law was nothing but a gold-digger whod latched onto her precious son.
“Margaret, Im busy,” I said calmly, scrawling my signature across the final invoice.
“Busy? Doing what, exactly? Filing your nails? Counting my sons money? Sorting banknotes by colour in that ridiculous crocodile wallet of yours?”
Her voice trembled with poorly concealed, decades-old envythe kind that made her drop by unannounced to rifle through our fridge, clicking her tongue in disgust at the sight of foie gras or artichokes.
“Im working,” I replied evenly, pushing the paperwork aside.
“Working?” she drawled, and I could practically *feel* the smirk on the other end. “Oh, Emily, dont make me laugh. Your job is to cater to my son. Cook his dinner. Make his bed. Remember your place.”
I closed my eyes. On my mahogany desk lay the draft of a new menu, designed by my French head chef.
Tens of thousands of pounds in investments. Sleepless nights. Negotiations with suppliers from Italy and Norway.
“Stop pretending youre some businesswoman. Youre just the help, Emily. A well-dressed, overpriced maid. And thats all youll ever be.”
Something inside me pulled taut, like a wire stretched to breaking. Ten years Id endured this. Ten years Id kept the promise I made to Damian at the start of our marriage.
Back then, standing in the cramped space of my first café, hed taken my hands and begged, “Emily, pleaselet my mother think Im the one helping you. Her lifes been hard. She poured everything into me. If she knew you were more successful, it would destroy her.” Blinded by love and gratitude for the loan hed scraped together from his savings, I agreed. A small, harmless lie for peace. But over a decade, it had festered into something monstrous.
“I need money,” Margaret announced without preamble. “My coats falling apartI cant even show my face in public. Tell Damian to bring me twenty thousand by tonight. Not that youd mind, would you? Youre so good at squeezing money out of him.”
She spoke as if demanding household funds from a housekeeper.
I looked at my manicured nailsat the hands that ran a business turning over millions. And suddenly, I realised I was exhausted. No, not just exhausted*hollow*.
“Fine,” I replied, my voice unnervingly detached. “Youll get your coat.”
I hung up before she could respond, dialling the manager of *The Golden Pheasant*.
“Stephen, good afternoon. Some news. Starting tomorrow, were implementing stricter quality control. For *all* staff. No exceptions. Especially in the dishwashing section. Rumor has it, James Whitmore might be dropping in for an inspection. We must be flawless.”
**Tuesday**
That evening, my phone rang again. I was reviewing financial reports.
“How *dare* you?!” Margaret shrieked loud enough to distort the speaker. “Is this some kind of humiliation? Forcing an elderly woman with a heart condition to re-wash an entire rack of plates! That little upstart Stephen stood over me the whole time!”
I pictured her faceflushed, twisted with rage. To keep her from learning the truth, Id rarely set foot in the restaurant, managing everything from a private office. To the staff, Stephen was the boss.
“Margaret, the rules apply to everyone. Clean dishes are the foundation of this restaurants reputation. Especially with a critic like Whitmore rumoured to visit.”
“*Reputation*? What reputation could a little tramp like you possibly have? My boy poured money into this place, and for what?”
She didnt know Damian hadnt invested a penny beyond that first loan. That *I* had built everything from a single café while he played golf with his friends. He loved calling himself “the restaurateurs husband” in front of his mates, basking in the rewards of *my* work.
“That manager of yours looked at me like I was dirt! One more complaint from the waitstaff, he said, and Id be fined! Ill tell Damian! Ill make sure he knows how youre tormenting his mother!”
She slammed the phone down. I poured myself a glass of water. My hands shook slightly.
**Wednesday**
At noon, Stephen called.
“Emily, weve got a problem. Margaret refused to come in today. Sent a message saying her blood pressure spiked due to intolerable working conditions and bias.”
I sighed.
“Mark it as an unpaid absence.”
“Shes threatening to report uslabour inspectors, the lot.”
“Let her. All our records are in order. And the dish pit has cameras. She can complain all she wants.”
That evening, Damian came home tense-lipped.
“Emily, whats going on? Mum called in hysterics. Says youre forcing her out.”
He sat across from me, eyes full of quiet, weary reproacha look hed perfected.
“Damian, Ive just raised cleanliness standards. Your mother thinks they dont apply to her.”
“But you couldve made an exception! Warned her properly! Shes not young, Emily. Why the inspections? The fines? You know how fragile she is.”
*Fragile*. The woman who called me a maid and a cuckoo was *fragile*.
“There are no exceptions for relatives in my business. Thats called professionalism.”
“*Your* business?” He smirked, and the venom in it was palpable. “Emily, dont forget who gave you your start. Without my money, youd still be brewing coffee in a rented kitchen.”
The blow was precise, painful. For ten years, hed wielded this argument, even though Id repaid every penny within three years. He preferred to forgetthat fabricated debt was his leverage.
“Damian, I dont want to argue.”
“But *I* do!” His voice rose. “Youve always hated my mother! And now that you think youre in charge, youve found a way to punish her!”
I walked to the window. Arguing was useless. Hed never acknowledge the truthit shattered the comfortable world where he was the benefactor, and I, forever indebted.
“Stop tormenting her,” he said to my back. “Or Ill handle this myself.”
**Thursday**
It happened on Thursday. James Whitmore *did* visit. Unannounced, as expected.
Stephen whispered the news over the phone, and I rushed to the restaurant.
Seated at a far table, I watched as the waitstaff moved flawlessly, as Whitmore sampled our new tasting menu with an unreadable expression. Everything was perfect.
Until Margaret stormed in.
Dressed in a shabby coat, hair wild, face contorted with rage, she shoved past the confused security.
“Where is that little snake?!” she shrieked.
Music stopped. Every head turned. I saw Whitmores eyebrow lift as he set down his fork.
Stephen rushed to intercept her, but she shoved him away.
“Dont touch me, you brat! Im the owners mother! My son, Damian Whitmore, funds this place! And his wife, that little harlot, is abusing me!”
She marched straight for Whitmores table, likely mistaking him for the most important guest.
“Look at this!” She yanked a filthy rag from her pocket. “This is what they wash dishes with! And then serve to you! Its disgusting! They work an old woman to the bone for pennies!”
I stood. Time slowed. I saw the critics intrigued disgust, the staffs horror. This was the end. Shed come to destroy everything Id builtand she was succeeding.
I dialled Damian.
“Get to the restaurant. Now. Your mothers ruining it.”
While he raced over, I approached her.
“Margaret, stop this.”
“*Stop*?! Im exposing you! Youre a fraud!”
Just then, Damian burst in, panting. He took in the scenehis mother, me, the stunned guestsand paled.
“Mum, what are you doing? Lets go,” he pleaded, reaching for her arm.
She jerked away. “Choose! Me,
