“You’re just a servant,” my mother-in-law sneered, unaware that I owned the restaurant where shed scrubbed dishes for ten years.
“Well, did you finally get what you wanted?” Her voice oozed venom through the phone, not even bothering to hide it.
I switched the receiver to my other ear without a word, continuing to sign a thick stack of invoices.
“Damian keeps ignoring my calls. Thats your doing, isnt it? What nonsense have you filled his head with, you barren cuckoo?”
Margaret Elaine Whitmore. My mother-in-law. A dishwasher at my flagship restaurant, *The Golden Pheasant*. Shed worked there for a decade, convinced all this time that her daughter-in-law was a freeloader whod latched onto her “golden” son.
“Margaret, Im busy,” I replied calmly, scrawling my signature across the last invoice.
“*Busy*? What could *you* possibly be busy with? Filing your nails? Counting my sons money? Sorting it by colour into that ridiculous crocodile wallet of yours?”
Her voice trembled with poorly concealed, decades-old envythe very same that made her drop by uninvited to rifle through our fridge, clicking her tongue in disgust at the foie gras and artichokes.
“Im working,” I said flatly, pushing the paperwork aside.
“*Working*?” she drawled, and I could practically *feel* her sneer through the line. “Oh, Emily, dont make me laugh. Your job is to keep my son happy. Cook his meals, make his bed. Know your place.”
I pinched my eyes shut. On the oak desk before me lay the new menu designed by my French head cheftens of thousands of pounds in investments, sleepless nights, negotiations with suppliers from Italy and Norway.
“Enough pretending to be some businesswoman. Youre a servant, Emily. Just an expensive, well-dressed one. And you always will be. Remember that.”
Something inside me twisted taut as a bowstring. Ten years Id endured this. Ten years keeping the promise Id made to Damian at the start.
Back then, standing in the cramped space of my first café, hed taken my hands and said, “Emily, Im begging youlet Mum think *Im* the one helping *you*. Shes had a hard life, given everything for me. If she finds out youre more successful, itll destroy her. Her pride would be trampled in the dirt.” Blinded by love and gratitude for the small loan hed given me from his savings, Id agreed. It had seemed harmless then. A little lie for peace. A lie that festered into a monster over a decade.
“I need money,” Margaret announced without preamble. “My coats threadbareI cant even show my face. Tell Damian to bring me twenty thousand tonight. Not a problem for you, Im sure. Youre quite skilled at squeezing money out of him.”
She spoke as if demanding household funds from a housekeeper.
I glanced at my immaculate manicure, at the fingers that ran a business turning over millions. And suddenly, I was exhausted. Not just tired*hollow*.
“Fine,” I said, my voice detached. “Youll get your coat.”
I hung up before she could retort, then dialled the manager of *The Golden Pheasant*.
“Simon, good afternoon. Some newsstarting tomorrow, were implementing stricter quality control. For *all* staff. No exceptions. Especially in the dish pit. Word is, Edward Langleys doing surprise inspections. We must be flawless.”
**Tuesday**
That evening, my phone rang again. I was reviewing financial reports.
“How *dare* you?!” she shrieked, the speaker crackling. “This is *humiliation*! Forcing an elderly woman with a heart condition to redo an entire rack of plates? That lapdog of yours, Simon, stood over me!”
I pictured her facepurple, contorted with rage. To keep the truth hidden, I rarely visited the restaurant, managing everything from a separate office. Simon was the face of authority to the staff.
“Margaret, the rules apply to everyone. Clean dishes are the foundation of our reputation. Especially with a critic of Langleys calibre possibly visiting.”
“*Reputation*? What reputation does some jumped-up little *nobody* have? My son poured money into this place, and for what?”
She didnt know Damian hadnt invested a penny beyond that first loan. That *I* had built this empire from a single café. He basked in calling himself “the restaurateurs husband” among friends, enjoying the fruits of *my* labour.
“That manager of yours looked at me like I was *filth*! Said one more complaint from the waitstaff about my attitude and Id be fined! Ill tell Damian! Hell hear how youre *abusing* his mother!”
She slammed the phone down. I poured myself a glass of water. My hands shook slightly.
**Wednesday**
At noon, Simon 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 exhaled. “Mark it as an unpaid absence.”
“Shes threatening the labour board and complaints to every authority.”
“Let her. All documentation is in order. The dish pit cameras too. Let her complain, Simon.”
That evening, Damian confronted me. He came home tense, lips pressed thin.
“Emily, whats going on? Mum called hysterical. Says youre forcing her out.”
He sat opposite me, eyes full of that quiet, exhausting reproach hed perfected.
“Ive raised hygiene standards. Your mother thinks they shouldnt apply to her.”
“But couldnt you make an *exception*? Warn her properly! Shes not young! Why the inspections, the fines? You know how fragile she is.”
*Fragile*. The woman who called me a servant and a cuckoo*fragile*.
“There are no exceptions for relatives in my business. Thats called professionalism.”
“*Your* business?” His smile was crooked, dripping poison. “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. Ten years hed wielded this argument, though Id repaid every penny within three. He preferred to forget, because this false debt was his leverage.
“I dont want to argue.”
“*I* do!” he snapped. “You *hate* her! You always have! Now that youre in charge, youve found a way to punish her!”
I walked to the window. Arguing was pointless. Hed never acknowledge the truthit shattered his cosy world where he was the benefactor, and I, forever indebted.
“Stop tormenting her,” he said to my back. “Or Ill make you regret it.”
**Thursday**
It happened that afternoon. Edward Langley *did* arrive. Unannounced, as usual.
Simon whispered the news over the phone, and I rushed to the restaurant.
I sat at a corner table, watching the flawless service, Langleys impassive face as he sampled our new tasting menu. Everything was perfect.
Until Margaret stormed in.
She wore her old, frayed coat, hair wild, face twisted with fury. Shed bypassed security through the staff entrance.
“Where is that *viper*?” she screeched.
Music stopped. All eyes turned. Langley arched a brow, setting down his fork.
Simon rushed her, but she shoved him off.
“Dont *touch* me, you little *worm*! Im the owners *mother*! My son, Damian Whitmore, *funds* this cesspit! And his wife, that *harlot*, humiliates me!”
She marched toward Langleys table, mistaking him for some VIP.
“Look at *this*!” She yanked a filthy rag from her pocket. “This is what they wipe dishes with! Then serve to *you*! Disgraceful! They work an old woman to the bone for pennies!”
I stood. Time slowed. I saw Langleys disgusted intrigue, the staffs horror. This was the end. Shed come to destroy everything Id built.
I called Damian.
“Get to the restaurant. Now. Your mothers ruining it.”
While he raced over, I approached her.
“Margaret, stop this.”
“*Stop*? Im exposing you! *Parasite*!”
Damian burst in, panting. He took in his mother, me, the stunned guestsand paled.
“Mum, what are you *doing*? Lets go.”
He reached for her arm.
“*Dont*!” She wrenched free. “Choose! Me, your mother, or *that*”
Something *snapped* inside me. I looked at my weak, terrified husband,
