A queen. That word would remain etched in my mind as a cruel mockery.
The selling process was fast. Too fast. Victoria knew a real estate agent who had a buyer in three weeks. The house sold for three hundred thousand dollars. It was not a fortune in today’s market, but it was everything Arthur and I had built.
The day I signed the papers, I cried in the bathroom of the title company office. I cried for Arthur, for all those years, for the house that would no longer be mine. When I walked out, Victoria was waiting for me in the car with that perfect smile.
“You will see, Margaret. This is the best for everyone. Jason and I have already started looking for the perfect house. It will be beautiful, with a garden, with a pool. You are going to be so comfortable.”
I nodded, wiping my tears. I wanted to believe her. I needed to believe her.
I moved into Jason and Victoria’s house two weeks later. It was a nice house. I could not deny that. Two stories, modern kitchen, elegant furniture. But when Victoria showed me my room, I felt something break inside me. It was a small room at the back of the house, next to the laundry room. A simple twin bed, a tiny closet, a window that looked out onto the alley.
“It is temporary,” Victoria explained. “Until we find the new house. There you will have a beautiful room with a private bathroom and everything.”
Jason was standing behind her, silent, looking at the floor. I wanted to ask him why he said nothing, why he allowed this, but I swallowed the words. I arranged my few belongings in that room that smelled of detergent and closed the door.
The first week was strange but tolerable. I tried to be useful. Make breakfast. Clean a little. Victoria always thanked me with that smile that never reached her eyes.
“How sweet, Margaret. But you do not have to do anything. Rest.”
However, the second week, everything changed. Victoria started leaving me lists in the kitchen. “Things to do today,” the paper said. Do the laundry. Iron Jason’s shirts. Clean the bathrooms. Prepare dinner. At first, I thought it was temporary, that maybe she was busy with work. But the lists became longer, more demanding. Wash the windows. Clean the oven. Dust all the furniture.
I was sixty-six years old. My knees hurt. My back protested with every movement. But I did it. I did it because I thought it was my way of paying for being there. Because I thought this way I was helping my son.
One day, Victoria invited her friends over for tea. I was in the kitchen preparing the snacks when one of them came in looking for the bathroom. She saw me with the apron on, my hands covered in flour, and asked,
“Are you the new housekeeper?”
Before I could answer, Victoria appeared behind her.
“Oh, no. She is Jason’s mom. She lives with us and she loves to cook, right, Margaret?”
The way she said it, with that poisonous sweetness, made me feel small, invisible, insignificant. I nodded and went back to my snacks while I heard their laughter in the living room.
That night, when Jason arrived from work, I tried to talk to him.
“Son, I need us to talk.”
He loosened his tie, tired.
“What is it, Mom?”
I did not know how to say it without sounding ungrateful, without sounding like a complaining old woman.
“It is just that I feel like I am doing too much work around the house. I thought I sold my house to be with you, not to be the maid.”
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