Jason sighed, annoyed.
“Mom, nobody is forcing you to do anything. If you want to help with the house, great. But do not come complaining later. Victoria works all day. I work all day. Is it too much to ask that you help a little?”
His words fell on me like stones. Help a little. As if cleaning the entire house, cooking three meals a day, washing and ironing were not enough.
But the worst had not happened yet.
One night, two months after moving in, I heard voices in Jason’s home office. The door was ajar, and I recognized Victoria’s voice, furious.
“It has been two months, and you still have not talked to the architect. We need to start construction on our house. Your mother gave us three hundred thousand dollars, Jason. It is more than enough for the down payment.”
My heart stopped. Three hundred thousand. I had given all the money to Jason the day after the sale was finalized. He told me he would put it in a special account, that he would invest it wisely for the new house. I moved closer to the door, holding my breath. Jason replied with a tired voice.
“Victoria, I already told you, the money is invested. It needs time to grow.”
She let out a sarcastic laugh.
“Invested in what? Because as far as I know, we have not seen a single cent of profit. And meanwhile, your mother is here living for free. Eating our food, using our utilities. It is the least she can do. Help with the housework.”
I felt the world stop. “Living for free,” as if my three hundred thousand dollars meant nothing. As if forty years of sacrifice were invisible.
That night, I could not sleep. I stared at the ceiling of that small, cold room, wondering at what moment I had lost my son. At what moment Jason, the boy who cried in my arms when he had nightmares, had become this man who allowed his wife to treat me like garbage.
The next day, Victoria handed me another list. This time, it was longer than ever. And at the end, there was a note: “Please, when you finish with this, serve dinner at eight o’clock sharp. Jason and I have important guests.” She did not sign with her name. She did not put a genuine please. It was an order, direct and clear.
I took the list with trembling hands and went to the kitchen. While I peeled potatoes, while I chopped vegetables, while my tears fell on the cutting board, I knew something had to change. I could not keep living like this. I could not keep being invisible in my own son’s life.
The guests arrived at eight o’clock sharp. They were colleagues of Victoria’s, elegant people with expensive clothes and perfumes that left an intense trail throughout the house. I had spent four hours cooking, preparing a menu that Victoria had dictated to me that morning: shrimp appetizer, gourmet salad, stuffed chicken with wine sauce, and chocolate dessert. My feet were killing me. My hands smelled of garlic and onion, but everything was ready.
I set the table with the fine china Victoria kept for special occasions, folded the napkins as she had taught me, lit the candles. When I finished, I retreated to the kitchen, expecting them to call me to serve. And they called me, again and again.
“Margaret, more water.”
“Margaret, the sauce is cold.”
“Margaret, we need bread.”
Every time I entered the dining room, I felt their stares. Some were of pity, others of curiosity. But the worst was Victoria’s. A triumphant look, as if she were exhibiting me, as if she were proving to her friends that she had the power, the control, the authority in that house. Jason said nothing. He ate in silence, nodded when someone spoke, but never looked me in the eyes.
When the guests finally left, it was almost eleven at night. The kitchen was a disaster. Dirty plates piled in the sink, pots with stuck food, the floor stained with sauce. I leaned against the table, feeling my legs giving out. Victoria walked in with two empty wine glasses and left them next to the other dishes.
“Everything was delicious, Margaret. My friends were impressed. Although, next time, try to serve faster. There were awkward moments of waiting.”
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