Under His Roof

The Unexpected Guest

RIAN

“What’s she doing here?” I asked, dabbing the hanky on my mouth with more force than necessary.

“What do you mean by that?” Mom questioned, her eyebrows furrowing in that calm but dangerous way she reserved for my less than polished behavior. “I said she was our new assistant housekeeper.”

Assistant housekeeper. The audacity of it all made my stomach churn. This b***h—this disaster of a human being was going to be living under our roof, breathing our air, and contaminating our space with her presence.

The very thought of seeing her every day, touching our belongings, existing in spaces that I should exist in, made my skin crawl.

I watched as she shifted uncomfortably beside me, clearly sensing the pressure but too dense to understand her she wasn't needed.

“Why do we need two housekeepers?” I raised my voice, my composure finally cracking.

Our current housekeeper was good with her job, she knew our routines, our preferences, and our unspoken rules. Besides, we employ women and not girls in high school as our housekeeper. She was below age, so what exactly was special about her? What could this amateur possibly offer that we didn’t already have?

I hated this. I despised showing this side of myself to anyone, especially my parents. But this good-for-nothing b***h was pushing me to my breaking point, making me nag at my parents like some petulant child.

I could feel my parents exchanging glances over my head, probably wondering what had gotten into their usually composed son. Dad’s fork clinked against his plate as he set it down, the sound unnaturally too loud in my ears.

I found myself studying her reflection on the polished surface of the water pitcher, noting how out of place she looked among our fine china. Even her posture was wrong, she wasn't standing like she should. She didn’t understand the invisible boundaries that governed spaces like this, and unsaid rules that separated people like us from people like her.

“She’s Patricia’s grandchild,” Mom paused, her eyes studying my face carefully. “I’m sure you remember the incident with her. So we need to help her.”

The mention of Madam Pat’s name squeezed the works in my stomach.

My beloved Madam Pat. She practically raised me when my parents were too busy. She taught me almost everything and my childhood story wouldn’t be complete without mentioning her. She was a sweet soul, but not until she decided to abandon me. She really helped me when I lost my twin sister by giving me false hopes that she was coming back not until now that I was smart enough to know she lied.

I could almost smell her famous apple cinnamon cookies baking in the oven now that mom mentioned her. She was the one person who understood that losing my twin wasn’t just losing a sibling, it was losing half of my soul.

One morning I woke up expecting to find her preparing breakfast as she had every day for years, only to discover her room empty and her belongings gone as if she had never existed at all.

I cried myself to sleep for weeks when she left. She didn’t even say goodbye, after then I started being cold to other housekeepers who worked with us after her.

“Why not Madam Pat instead of her then?” I managed to choke out, though part of me already dreaded the answer.

“She is dead,” the b***h responded with such casual indifference that I wanted to get up from my seat and shake sense into her until she understood.

Holy s**t. Madam Pat was dead. No wonder she never reached out to me.

All those years of wondering, hoping she might return to us, and tell me her boring jokes which I weirdly enjoyed. She hadn’t chosen to leave me, death stole her away, just as it had stolen my sister.

My head wouldn’t stop banging, a relentless drumbeat of grief and disbelief. Why must she be Madam Pat’s grandchild? Of all the cruel jokes the universe could play, this had to be the worst.

I loved Madam Pat with every fiber of my being, but I would never transfer that love to this worthless excuse for a human being standing next to me. It would be an insult to Madam Pat’s memory.

She was nothing like what Madam Pat had described her granddaughter to be. Madam Pat said she was an ambitious girl who worked hard in school and assisted her without being asked. She was meant to be cool, easygoing, and hardworking. Absolutely a younger version of the woman I adored.

But she was far from it. Everything about her screamed entitlement. Even her posture irritated me—slouched shoulders, and downcast eyes, like the whole world owed her something.

I raised my head to look at her tacky self once more, but the sight of her made my stomach lurch violently. She irritated me so thoroughly that I was afraid the food might come shooting out of my nose in the most undignified way imaginable.

Dad continued eating as if nothing was happening, occasionally glancing between Mom and me. Mom, however, watched me with growing concern.

“Rian, are you alright?” she asked softly, reaching across the table to touch my hand.

I pulled away before her fingers could make contact. This felt wrong when my entire world had just shifted off its axis. Madam Pat was dead, and this impostor was wearing her legacy.

I needed air but here but I couldn’t leave.

“I’m fine,” I responded even though I was far from okay. I forced myself to take another bite of the roasted chicken that now tasted bland.

I studied her more closely, searching for any trace of Madam Pat in her. Perhaps a familiar curve of the lips, the shape of her eyes, or anything that might justify the connection.

But there was nothing.

It was almost insulting how different they were. Madam Pat had spoken of her granddaughter with such pride, describing a girl whom I fell in love with by just hearing how cool she was, and was eager to meet.

What a joke that turned out to be.

I forced myself to take another bite of potatoes.

“Where will she be staying?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level. The thought of her occupying any of our guest rooms, sleeping under the same roof, breathing the same air night after night, might make me go crazy.

“The empty room upstairs where Patricia used to keep her things,” Mom replied. “It has been empty for so long.”

Upstairs? Almost close to my room. They didn’t even show me little mercies.

I didn’t want to be rude further to my parents because of her presence. They didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of my anger toward this unwanted guest. So I forced myself to finish my food in silence.