From Rags to Riches: The Discarded Wife's Revenge

Chapter 1 The alarm pierced through the darkness at 4:30 AM, and Ethel's hand shot out immediately to silence it. She couldn't let it wake Morris. He hated being disturbed. She slipped out of bed carefully, but it didn't matter because Morris didn't stir. He never did anymore not when she left the bed, not when she returned. The king-sized mattress might as well have been an ocean between them. The cold tile floor bit at her bare feet as she padded to the bathroom. She caught her reflection in the mirror and quickly looked away. The dark circles under her eyes had become permanent fixtures, and her cheekbones were sharper than they used to be. When had she gotten so thin? It doesn't matter, she told herself, splashing cold water on her face. Today will be better. I'll make it better. By 5:00 AM, she was in the kitchen, tying her worn apron around her waist. The fabric was fraying at the edges, but she didn't dare ask Morris for money to replace it. Not after last time. "Again, Ethel? What do you do with the money I give you?" She shook the memory away and focused on breakfast. Morris liked his eggs perfectly poached, his toast golden brown but not too dark, his coffee at exactly 185 degrees. She'd learned to gauge the temperature without a thermometer after he'd thrown his first cup back at her for being too hot. The scar on her wrist from the scalding coffee had faded, but she could still feel it sometimes. As the water simmered, Ethel prepared everything else: fresh-squeezed orange juice because Morris said store-bought ones tasted like chemicals, hand-cut fruit arranged in a perfect fan, the morning newspaper ironed flat because Morris hated creases. She'd read about that tip in a magazine at the grocery store of how devoted wives in the 1950s used to iron their husbands' newspapers. The article had been meant to be satirical, but Ethel had tried it, desperately hoping it would make Morris smile at her just once. It never did. By 6:30 AM, the dining table looked like something from a luxury hotel spread. Ethel stood back, surveying her work with a critical eye. The placement was perfect. The temperature was right. Everything was exactly as Morris liked it. She heard footsteps on the stairs and quickly smoothed down her hair, pinching her cheeks to bring color to her pale face. Her hands trembled slightly as she waited. Morris entered the dining room in his designer suit, already scrolling through his phone. He was handsome, she'd fallen in love with that face once. Strong jaw, dark hair always perfectly styled, eyes that used to look at her with warmth. Now those eyes slid over her like she was part of the furniture. "Good morning," Ethel said softly, hopefully. "I made your favorite." Morris sat down without acknowledging her, still typing on his phone. Ethel felt something crack in her chest but kept her smile in place. She poured his coffee and set it beside his plate. He took a sip and immediately pushed it away. "It's cold." Ethel's stomach dropped. "I—I just poured it. I timed it perfectly..." "Are you arguing with me?" Morris looked up for the first time with those cold eyes of his. "No! No, of course not. I'm sorry. I'll make a fresh pot right away." Ethel reached for the cup with shaking hands. Morris had already returned to his phone. "Don't bother. I'll grab something at the office." "But I made breakfast..." "I'm not hungry." He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. Ethel watched helplessly as he walked toward the door, past the meal she'd spent ninety minutes preparing. "Morris, wait..." She hated how desperate she sounded. "Will you be home for dinner? I could make that pasta you like, the one with..." "I have a late meeting. So don't wait up." The door closed behind him with a final click that echoed through the empty house. Ethel stood alone in the dining room, staring at the untouched breakfast. The eggs were perfect. The toast was exactly the right shade of golden. The coffee was... She picked up the cup and took a sip. It didn't take long for her to yell in pain. Perfect. A key turned in the front door, and Ethel's heart leaped for a foolish moment—Morris had come back!—before she heard the sharp voices. "I don't understand why we have to come so early, Mother. She's probably still sleeping." "Victoria, darling, someone needs to ensure this house is run properly. Heaven knows that girl has no idea what she's doing." Ethel's heart sank. Her mother-in-law, Helen, and sister-in-law, Victoria, entered into the dining room like twin storms. Both were heavily dressed with Helen in a cream Chanel suit, and Victoria in designer athleisure. "Oh." Helen's nose wrinkled as she surveyed the table. "You've made breakfast. How... Surprising." "Good morning, Mother Helen. Good morning, Victoria." Ethel clasped her hands together to hide their trembling. "Would you like some..." "Is this store-bought jam?" Victoria picked up the jar with two fingers, as if it might contaminate her. "Ugh, Ethel, really? We're not peasants." "I—I made it myself. From the strawberries in the garden." Ethel had spent six hours last weekend making that jam, following a recipe from Morris's late grandmother. She'd thought Helen would appreciate the gesture. Helen sniffed. "Homemade. How charmingly stupid." Her tone made it clear "stupid" was not a compliment. "Though I suppose we can't expect more from someone with your... background." The words hit like slaps. Ethel had heard variations of this for three years. Your background. Where you came from. What you are. An orphan. Nobody. Nothing. "I'll clear this away and make you something fresh..." "Don't bother." Victoria was already heading toward the living room, scrolling through her phone. "I'm meeting friends for brunch anyway. Somewhere with actual quality food." Helen settled into Morris's chair, the one at the head of the table and pulled out her phone. "Ethel, be a dear and bring me some tea. Not too hot, not too cold. You remember how I like it." "Of course, Mother Helen." Ethel gathered the untouched breakfast with numb hands. Three hours of work, and no one had eaten a single bite. She tried not to think about the groceries she'd carefully budgeted for, the early morning wake-up, the hope she'd felt while cooking. Today will be better, she'd told herself. She'd been wrong. Again. In the kitchen, Ethel scraped the eggs into the trash and felt something wet on her cheeks. She touched her face, surprised to find tears. When had she started crying? "ETHEL!" Victoria's voice shrieked from the living room. "This coffee table is dusty! When was the last time you cleaned?" "I cleaned yesterday..." She tried to defend herself. "Well, it's not clean enough! God, do I have to do everything myself?" Ethel closed her eyes and took a breath. Then another. She made the tea steeped for three and a half minutes and brought it to Helen on a silver tray she'd polished until she could see her reflection. Helen took the cup without looking up from her phone. "The water is cloudy. Did you use filtered water?" "Yes, Mother Helen. I always..." "It tastes off. Make it again." Ethel's hands tightened on the tray. "Of course." As she walked back to the kitchen, she heard Victoria laugh at something on her phone. "Mother, look at this. Jennifer posted photos from her vacation in Santorini. Doesn't she look gorgeous?" "Beautiful as always," Helen sighed. "Such a shame things didn't work out between her and Morris. She would have been perfect for this family." Ethel's almost missed her step. Jennifer was Morris's ex-girlfriend from college. Helen brought her up at least once a week, always with the same wistful tone. "Jennifer would have hosted such elegant dinner parties." "Jennifer spoke three languages fluently." "Jennifer came from such a good family." The implication was always clear: Jennifer would have been perfect. "I still don't understand what Morris was thinking," Victoria continued, her voice carrying easily to the kitchen. "Marrying someone so... beneath him. She can't even throw a decent dinner party." "The last one was mortifying," Helen agreed. "She served the wine at the wrong temperature. And her dress...Lord, did you see that dress? I thought she was the help." They both laughed as Ethel stood frozen at the kitchen sink, the tea kettle shaking in her hands. She knew they knew she could hear them. That was the point. They wanted her to hear. I'm trying, she wanted to scream. I'm trying so hard. What more do you want from me? But she already knew the answer. They didn't want her to try harder. They wanted her gone. The kettle whistled, and Ethel made the tea again. She even warmed the cup this time. She brought it to Helen on the same polished tray. Helen took a sip, made a face, and set it down. "Better. Though Jennifer always made the most perfect tea. She studied in England, you know." "Yes, Mother Helen. You've mentioned that." The words came out before Ethel could stop them. Helen's eyes snapped up, cold and sharp. "Excuse me?" Ethel's heart hammered. "I just meant...I remember you telling me about Jennifer's time in England." "Are you being snippy with me, girl?" "No! No, I would never—" "Because I can speak to Morris about your attitude. I'm sure he'd be very interested to hear how you've been treating his mother." Ethel's blood ran cold. The last time Helen had "spoken to Morris" about her, he hadn't come home for three days. When he finally did, he'd looked at her with such disgust. "Can't you do anything right? Can't you just keep my mother happy? Is that really so much to ask?" "I apologize, Mother Helen," Ethel said quietly, her eyes on the floor. "I didn't mean any disrespect." Helen studied her for a long moment, then waved a dismissive hand. "See that you watch your tone. Now, I need you to drive Victoria to the spa. Her car is being serviced." "Of course. When should I..." "Now, obviously. She has an appointment in thirty minutes." Ethel glanced at the clock. The spa was forty minutes away in good traffic. "I'll get my keys." Victoria didn't speak during the drive, just scrolled through her phone and sighed dramatically whenever they hit a red light, as if Ethel were personally controlling the traffic signals. Ethel gripped the steering wheel and focused on the road, trying not to think about the mountain of laundry waiting at home, or the grocery shopping she needed to do, or the dinner she'd have to prepare that Morris probably wouldn't eat anyway. They arrived at the spa with two minutes to spare. Victoria got out without a word of thanks, then paused and turned back. "Ethel? My brother wanted me to tell you that he's bringing clients home for dinner next Friday. Mother expects you to make that roast she likes. The expensive one. Try not to mess it up this time." Ethel's mouth went dry. Next Friday? That was eight days away. She'd need to budget carefully to afford the right cut of meat. Maybe she could skip lunch for the next week, to save that money... "I'll make it perfect," Ethel promised. Victoria's smile was sharp. "You'd better. Mother's still talking about the last disaster you served." She slammed the car door and walked away, her designer purse swinging. Ethel sat in the parking lot for a moment, her head resting on the steering wheel. She was so tired. Not just physically, though her body ached from the early morning and constant movement. She was tired in her bones, in her soul. When had her life become this?