Chapter 3

In the aftermath of Sarah' s arrest, my parents insisted I move out of the dorms immediately. Within a week, I was settling into a beautiful, spacious one-bedroom apartment in a secure building just off campus. It was a relief to have my own space, a place where I could breathe without feeling judged or resented.

My mom, however, was still worried.

"I don' t like you being all alone, honey," she said over the phone. "You need to focus on your classes, not on cooking and cleaning. Let us hire a housekeeper for you."

I protested, but she was insistent. A few days later, she called back, sounding pleased.

"I found the perfect person! Her name is Mrs. Davis. The agency said she' s very experienced and reliable. She has a daughter in college who got into some trouble, so she' s working hard to support her family. I felt so bad for her."

A housekeeper with a troubled daughter. The irony wasn' t lost on me, but I felt a pang of sympathy. Maybe this would be good.

Mrs. Davis arrived the next morning. She was a woman in her late fifties, with a weary face and hands that were rough from work. She was polite, efficient, and her story about her family' s struggles pulled at my heartstrings.

"My daughter, she' s a good girl, just made a foolish mistake," she said, her eyes welling up. "And my son, Kevin, he' s having a hard time finding a job. I have to be strong for them."

Feeling a surge of compassion, I told her I' d pay her double the agency rate. Her eyes widened, and she thanked me profusely, promising to take wonderful care of me and the apartment.

For the first week, she was a dream. The apartment was always spotless, my laundry was perfectly folded, and she' d often leave a container of homemade soup in the fridge. But just like with Sarah, the pleasant surface began to crack, revealing something unsettling underneath.

It started with my food.

"Oh, dear, you' re having pasta for dinner?" she' d say, her voice dripping with disapproval as she glanced at the groceries I' d brought in. "So many carbohydrates. It' s not good for a young woman. Let me make you a nice, healthy bone broth instead. It' s much better for your complexion."

Then came the constant, subtle attempts to turn me into a domestic servant in my own home.

"I left the sponges out for you, Chloe," she' d announce. "The kitchen counters could use a good wipe-down after you made your breakfast. It' s a good skill for you to learn."

I would find my clean laundry left in a basket instead of put away, with a note saying, "Folding is a good, calming activity for a young lady."

One afternoon, her suggestions became a direct command. She stood in the kitchen, her hands on her hips, blocking my path to the living room.

"Chloe, a young woman like you, preparing for the future, needs to know how to keep a proper home," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. "It' s time you learned. From now on, I will teach you. Today, we will start by scrubbing the bathroom floors."

I stared at her, my patience wearing thin. "Mrs. Davis, I hired you to clean my apartment so I can focus on my studies. I have no interest in learning to scrub floors."

I tried to step around her, but she moved to block me again.

"This is not right," she insisted. "A woman' s place is in the home. What kind of wife will you be if you can' t even cook or clean for your husband?"

The outdated sentiment was so absurd it was almost funny. "I have no plans to be a 1950s housewife, Mrs. Davis. Now, if you' ll excuse me, I have a paper to write."

I pushed past her this time. A few moments later, a loud clattering sound came from the kitchen as she slammed pots and pans into the sink. The passive-aggressive noise was eerily familiar, a painful echo of my last days with Sarah. I sat at my desk, the words on my computer screen blurring. This wasn' t working. The sense of peace I' d felt in my new apartment was gone, replaced by the same suffocating tension. I had to fire her.