Chapter 2 - THE MORNING STICKERS
The morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen blinds, painting bright, accusing stripes across the stainless-steel door of Thalia’s oversized refrigerator.
I woke up at seven o’clock, my muscles still aching from the marathon shift, but the fatigue was completely eclipsed by a cold, sharp alertness. I wrapped my flannel robe tightly around myself and walked out into the kitchen.
The white sticker campaign was worse in daylight.
Every single item left inside my old refrigerator had a small piece of white tape stuck to it, marked with a neat, block-lettered T in black marker. The milk, the eggs, the butter, the half-loaf of wheat bread I had bought on Tuesday. Even the jar of strawberry jam my sister had sent me from upstate—T.
A soft rustle of silk pants announced Thalia’s entrance.
She walked into the kitchen wearing a matching cashmere lounge set, holding a gold-rimmed coffee mug. She took one look at me standing by the fridge and offered a polite, practiced smile.
“Good morning, Estelle. Did you sleep well?”
“Thalia,” I said, keeping my voice level, though my fingers gripped the edge of the counter. “What is this?”
She took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes scanning the labeled shelves with quiet satisfaction. “I told you last night. Desmond and I agreed that shared grocery expenses were getting messy. It’s much cleaner this way. Everyone pays for their own.”
“Shared expenses?” I echoed, disbelief sharpening my tone. “Thalia, you haven’t bought a single jar of coffee, a single carton of milk, or a single roll of paper towels since you moved in six months ago. Every single thing in this kitchen—including the roof over your head and the electricity powering that multi-thousand-dollar monster you dragged in here—is paid for by my pension and my hospital salary.”
Thalia’s smile vanished, replaced by a tight, defensive glare.
“You agreed to help us out during a difficult transition,” she said, her voice dropping into that icy, superior register she used when she wanted to make me feel small. “And quite frankly, your cooking habits are outdated. Desmond and I eat a specific, organic diet. We don't want our groceries mixed with your processed foods.”
“Processed foods?” I stared at her, stunned. “I bought organic eggs yesterday! They’re right there with your precious stickers on them!”
“Well, you can replace them if you eat them,” she said dismissively, turning toward the pantry. “By the way, Desmond and I are hosting a small dinner party this Friday night. Some business contacts from his potential new firm. I’ll need you to stay out of the living room and kitchen from six o’clock onward. We want everything to look... professional.”
She didn't wait for an answer. She opened her giant refrigerator, pulled out a carton of almond milk that cost more than a steak, poured a splash into her mug, and swept out of the room without another word.
I stood alone in the kitchen, my chest heaving with a slow, burning rage.
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They weren't just taking advantage of me. They were staging a hostile takeover of my home.
And as I looked at the little white stickers mocking me from every shelf, I decided that Friday night was going to be very, very interesting.
