Chapter 3 - The Servant in the Kitchen
The moment I pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped into the kitchen, a wave of unbearable heat hit my face. The oven was on. The stove had three different pots boiling over. The air was thick with the smell of grease, garlic, and sweat. My kitchen—the kitchen I had renovated with my own two hands so Amy could have her dream space—looked like the back room of a busy, understaffed restaurant.
There were stacks of dirty plates towering on the granite countertops. Greasy pans were piled haphazardly in the sink. Half-empty serving trays of food were scattered everywhere. And there, in the corner of the room, was my wife.
I stopped breathing. Amy was sitting on a cheap, flimsy plastic stool that my mother usually used to reach the top shelves. She was wearing a stained, oversized t-shirt and faded sweatpants. Her beautiful brown hair, usually so vibrant, was tied back in a messy, greasy knot. She looked so incredibly small. So frail. In her left arm, she was holding our son, Frederick. He was fussing, his little face flushed red, wearing nothing but a diaper because he was sweating profusely. With her right hand, Amy was aggressively scrubbing a burnt roasting pan with a steel wool sponge. Her knuckles were raw. Her eyes were hollow, sunken with dark purple bags underneath them. She looked completely, utterly broken.
As I stood there, frozen in horror, I watched her drop the sponge. Her hand trembled as she reached for a half-eaten, stale piece of bread resting on the edge of the counter. She brought it to her lips, taking a small, desperate bite. She was starving. My wife, the mother of my child, was eating scraps in her own kitchen while my relatives feasted on lobster outside.
“Amy,” I whispered. My voice cracked. It sounded like it belonged to someone else. She gasped, spinning around so fast she almost lost her balance on the stool. The piece of stale bread slipped from her fingers, tumbling to the tiled floor. Her eyes went wide, filled with a raw, unfiltered terror that I had never seen before. “Connor...” she breathed, her voice raspy and weak. She instinctively pulled Frederick closer to her chest, as if she were shielding him from an attack. “What... what are you doing home?”
I took a step forward, ignoring the mess, ignoring the boiling pots. “Amy, what is going on here?” I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. She immediately looked down, her shoulders hunching defensively. “Your mother... Teresa said I couldn’t stop yet,” she stammered, her voice shaking. “I still have to serve the coffee, Connor. The dessert course is next. She said if I don't get the coffee out in five minutes, she’ll...”
She stopped, biting her lip so hard it almost bled. “She’ll what, Amy?” I demanded, closing the distance between us. “She said she’ll tell you I’m an unfit mother,” a tear finally escaped, rolling down her cheek. “She said she’ll make sure you take Frederick away from me. Please, Connor, let me finish washing these. I’m almost done.”
My heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. The psychological abuse. The manipulation. My mother had convinced my vulnerable, postpartum wife that I would take our baby away if she didn't act as a slave.
I didn't say another word. I stepped forward and reached out for my son. Amy flinched, but I gently pulled Frederick from her arms. The second my skin touched his, a jolt of pure panic shot through my system. He was burning up. His little body was radiating heat like a furnace. His breathing was shallow, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “Amy... he’s burning up,” I said, panic edging into my voice. “He has a severe fever.”
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“I know,” she sobbed, burying her face in her raw hands. “I begged her, Connor. I begged your mother to let me give him medicine, to let me take him to a doctor.” “And what did she say?” I asked, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth ached. Amy looked up at me, her eyes completely defeated. “She said babies get hot. She said I was using him as an excuse to get out of doing my chores.”
Chores. In her own home. I looked at the boiling pots. I looked at the dirty dishes. Then I looked at the back door leading to the patio, where the loud laughter of my family continued to mock our suffering. “Stand up,” I commanded, my voice deadly calm. “What?” “Stand up, Amy. We are leaving.”
