You have that feeling of being trodden upon. I do. I am Diana, and during three long months I had to live as a maid in my own house, being background noise to my adult stepdaughter, Kayla. She threw garbage down whichever way she liked, regarded me as an insignificant creature created just to give her service, and took my forbearance to be unlimited.
She was mistaken.
Tom and I had developed a wonderful life together in ten years. Redwood Lane was our road and our house was small but full of laughs, crossword puzzles and Sunday pancakes. Rick is my first son, who was flourishing in college. And stuff like Kayla, the 22-year-old daughter of Tom? She fluttered, as it were, in the fringes, little paying attention to me. Not cruel. Just distant.
I did my level best. Birthday cards. The invitation of girls. Soft talks of her future. Nothing appeared to have an effect on her. And when she rang up and told Tom one wet night it was raining and that she was crying and wanted to come home and stay ADJUSTED T 25 just a little bit, I opened my arms. Naturally she might remain. Family, as it were.
She came like a tornado in suitcases and shopping bags; she barely said hello to me, she shot up into the guest room which I had so perfectly prepared and planted herself down. A few days later, the red flags emerged: cereal bowls being left out, make-up wipes being flung hither and thither, used water bottles were proliferating like rabbits.
Can you recycle these, sweetiee? I would enquire tactfully.
Oh, well, whatever, she would say and make no motion.
Her footprints of filth just increased. Couch cushions, banana stems. Amazon containers piled at portals. Food wrappings were strewn everywhere as confetti. My house- where I used to find a refuge- was becoming a dump site.
Tom said: Give her time. She is simply getting adjusted.
Weeks turned to months. And one Sunday morning the straw broke. Having deep-cleaned the living room earlier when Tom was out golfing, I went out to retrieve tomatoes in the garden. Minutes later, I walked back to see disaster: back packs, soda cans on the ground, orange Cheeto dust embedded in my cream-colored area rug.
And there sat Kayla, scrolling her phone as though nothing was up. “Diana! Could you mix some of those cakes you made me on my birthday? I’m starving.”
I stood watching, watching the destruction. My chest gets tight. I gripped my hands.
You remember what? I answered unhurriedly. I believe I have run out of pancake mix. Order takeout.”
This night, when Tom was snoring at my side, I decided. Whether Kayla thought I was the maid or not was her business. The chambermaid was leaving, however.
I did not continue picking up after her the following morning. All the dirty dishes remained. All the wrappers were left. She threw everything as it was right there on the ground. Several days later, the coffee table started to look like a littered dump.
On Tuesday, Kayla lost it.
“Diana?! You forgot you had any clean-up to do in here!”
I crept round a corner. They are not my dishes.
She blinked. “But… you never do it.”
“Do I? I cannot remember they made me say that.”
I grew on Thursday. All her trash that had her fingerprints was carefully placed in labeled baggies by me and handed to her room. Banana peels, used tissues, candy wrappers, etc. Thought you had a mind to these again! I made a note on each.
She was furious. However, I did not lose my manners.
The coup de grace was next week. and I stuffed her lunchbox with her own trash, tidily packed like a deformed bento-bowl: the stale remains of an apple core, her littered chip packets, even a discarded makeup wipe.
Lunchtime, my phone was buzzing with angry tones of “WHAT THE HELL DIANA??? Everyone at work thinks I am crazy!
I smiled quietly: Thought you would like leftovers. Good day!
Kayla arrived home unusually quiet on that evening. She looked through the now clean living room.
Diana? she called in a low voice. The living room is good.
I smiled. “Thank you.”
She hesitated. I mopped out clean, even upstairs.”
Kayla, thank you.
The following morning all the dishes were cleaned. Clothes were ironed. Garbage cans emptied.Then, before going to work, she stopped at the door. “Diana? When I ever want pancakes again, you know, can I just say please?”
I smiled. And why, that was all I wanted.
It has been 2 months since the Great Lunchbox Incident of Redwood Lane. We are not best friends who braid each other, nevertheless, it emerged to be something far more valuable, mutual respect.
We even cooked pancakes on Sunday. She ate four and really smiled.
Tom said, what changed? What magic charm had you thrown? he asked in a whisper.
I said, no spell. In order to clean up, sometimes someone has got to see the mess they are making.
Certain lessons call on harsh disciplines. And at some point, the us that has quietly grown strong over the years but has never found her voice finally speaks up.
Do you think this story resonated with you? Share it. You can never tell who has to be reminded of the fact: patience is a gift, but respect is earned.
