“You stupid, arrogant woman,” Helen spat, but she directed the venom at my mother, not at me.
I didn’t utter another word as Helen scurried toward the service quarters to retrieve her belongings. I didn’t engage as she stormed out the front door, spitting half-coherent legal threats into the humid air. I simply watched her cross the threshold, and the moment her heel cleared the frame, I slammed the door shut and engaged the deadbolt.
When I turned back to the living room, my mother was weeping.
I could count on one hand the number of times I had witnessed my mother shed tears. Once at my grandfather’s burial. Once when Sarah suffered a ruptured appendix. Once at my wedding ceremony. And once when my father’s hedge fund faced a public scandal. Even standing here, watching the water ruin her immaculate makeup, I could not decipher if she was crying out of genuine remorse, terror of consequence, or the sheer, humiliating rage of being outmaneuvered.
“She wasn’t supposed to take it that far,” my mother choked out, dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief.
The sentence struck me like a physical blow to the sternum.
Not supposed to take it that far. Not, I was completely oblivious. Not, This is a horrific tragedy. Merely a logistical complaint regarding the scale of the abuse.
“What explicit directives did you give her?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest.
My mother glanced nervously toward the sweeping staircase, as if the phantom of Audrey’s silence were standing on the landing, taking notes. “I explicitly instructed her… to provide assistance.”
“Assistance with what?”
“With managing the household. With establishing rigorous routines. With preparing her.”
“Preparing her for what?”
My mother finally locked eyes with me, her chin lifting in a defiant, desperate attempt to reclaim her authority. “For the brutal realities of motherhood.”
