Chapter 2 - Chores for the Queen
When the taxi dropped me off at the end of the cobblestone driveway of my five-bedroom home in Oakridge, Jennifer’s white luxury SUV was already parked crookedly across the double garage entrance.
I walked quietly around to the service door beside the garbage bins. The door creaked on its rusted hinges. Inside the cold, windowless utility room, Max the Labrador looked up from his plaid bed, thumping his golden tail against the floor. Beside his metal food bowl was the small cot Jennifer had set up: a thin foam mattress, a flat pillow, and my suitcase sitting unzipped on the concrete.
""Evelyn!"" Jennifer’s sharp, commanding voice rang out from the kitchen doorway at the top of the short wooden stairs.
She stood there wearing an expensive cashmere wrap—one of the gifts Robert and I had bought her for Christmas two years ago. She held a ceramic mug of steaming coffee in one hand and a yellow legal pad in the other.
""Where on earth have you been?"" she snapped, checking her diamond-encrusted watch. ""You were gone for nearly three hours. I thought we made it clear that if you’re living under our roof, you have obligations to fulfill.""
I stepped toward the bottom of the stairs, keeping my posture humble and my head slightly bowed. ""I had to see the cemetery director, Jennifer. To finalize the headstone engraving for Robert.""
Jennifer rolled her eyes with an audible sigh of exasperation. ""Well, that could have waited until the weekend. We have guests coming for dinner on Thursday—the board members from the country club. The house needs a deep clean, and since you’re no longer paying for the weekly cleaning service, you'll need to step up.""
She tore the top page off the legal pad and let it flutter down the stairs. It landed face-up near my boots.
I picked it up. Written in aggressive, jagged cursive was a list of twelve distinct chores: Scrub the guest bathroom tile with bleach, polish the sterling silver tea set in the dining room, weed the rose garden along the back patio, wash and iron Matthew's dress shirts, prepare dinner for eight by 6:00 PM Thursday.
""Is there a problem?"" she asked, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness.
""No,"" I replied softly, folding the paper into my pocket. ""No problem at all.""
""Good,"" she said, turning on her heel. ""And don't bother coming through the main hall while you're wearing those dirty shoes. Use the basement door. Matthew needs peace and quiet; he's reviewing the household budget.""
I walked up the stairs into the laundry room, hanging my coat on a wire hook. As I passed the breakfast nook, I caught a glimpse of my son sitting at the kitchen island.
Matthew was thirty-eight years old, with the same hazel eyes and sandy hair as his father. But where Robert had always carried an air of quiet, unshakable dignity, Matthew looked crumpled. He was staring at three open laptop tabs displaying overdue bank notices, credit card balances, and personal loan statements. His coffee mug sat untouched, cold grease forming a film on the surface.
""Matthew,"" I said gently, stepping into the edge of the kitchen.
He jumped, startled, instinctively angling the laptop screen away from me. ""Mom... hey. What are you doing in here?""
""I wanted to ask about the funeral expenses,"" I said, watching him carefully. ""The mortuary bill arrived in the mail yesterday. Eight thousand dollars for the vault and the floral arrangements.""
Matthew’s face flushed a deep, uncomfortable red. He rubbed the back of his neck, unable to meet my eyes for more than a second.
""Don't worry about it, Mom. The estate will handle it once the will clears probate. Everything is... it's just in a temporary transition period. You know how banks are.""
""Matthew,"" I took a step closer, my heart aching for the boy I had raised. ""Do you really think this is right? Letting Jennifer put me in the garage? In the home your father and I built with our own hands?""
Matthew slammed his laptop shut, standing up so abruptly his barstool scraped loudly against the oak flooring.
""Stop it, Mom! Just stop guilt-tripping me!"" he hissed, his voice trembling with a mixture of shame and irritation. ""You think this is easy for me? Jennifer says we have to look at the numbers! We have a private school mortgage for the kids! We have club dues! If Dad left me the estate, it's my responsibility to protect our future! You’re retired, you don't need a four-thousand-square-foot house to yourself! Just... just cooperate for once, okay? Do what she asks, and nobody will kick you out on the street!""
May you like
He grabbed his car keys off the granite counter, pushed past me without looking back, and slammed the front door behind him.
I stood alone in the kitchen, the silence settling around me like dust. I didn't cry. The time for tears was over. My son hadn't just lost his way; he had willingly traded his integrity for the illusion of wealth he had never earned.
