"Why?"

Steward Hargrove rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking uncharacteristically sheepish.

"She said you're just a nanny, and that the salary you're already getting is more than generous. No need to, as she put it, 'feed your appetite.'"

"Feed my appetite?"

I murmured the words back.

Me?

The woman who'd spent three years working herself to the bone, helping the lady of the house manage every last detail?

The one who crawled out of bed at dawn the moment Joseph so much as whimpered, rocking him back to sleep?

The one who'd been worked like a mule and never once complained?

I had no idea my appetite was so enormous, my ambition so glaring that the lady of the house felt the need to guard against me.

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Steward froze.

"Mrs. Lambert, what are you laughing about?"

I wiped the tears that had come with the laughter.

"Nothing, Steward. Since that's how the lady of the house feels, let's see who really has the bigger appetite."

He gave me a disapproving look.

"Mrs. Lambert, there's no need to act out of spite—"

His mouth opened to say more, but I didn't give him the chance.

"Steward, this isn't spite. Every word I've said comes straight from my heart."

I offered him a smile, then turned and walked away.

The house was quiet. Mr. Dickerson and his wife were at work; the children were at school.

The walk from the living room to the foyer—I'd made it a thousand times over the past three years.

This time, I let my gaze linger on everything it touched, etching it all into memory one final time.

At the entryway, I bent down to change my shoes and noticed a scatter of slippers beside the shoe cabinet. Without thinking, I crouched and lined them up neatly.

When I straightened, I went still.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Three years of instinct, drilled so deep it had seeped into my bones.

I closed my eyes, opened the front door, and left without a shred of longing.

Three years ago, I'd arrived with nothing. Now I was leaving the same way—empty-handed.

Passing through the garden, I caught two maids whispering nearby.

"What do you think Steward Hargrove called Mrs. Lambert in for?"

"I know—they were going to give her a raise."

"Seriously? I heard her salary hasn't gone up once in all these years."

"No way. That means she's still making three thousand a month? She does more work than anyone around here..."

One of them dropped her voice deliberately, but every word still reached me.

"Keep it down. Mrs. Dickerson said before that Mrs. Lambert's from the countryside—paying her three thousand is already doing her a favor. Give her any more and she'll get too full of herself..."

I didn't stay to hear the rest. I walked straight back to my quarters.

My quarters—a cramped little room behind the garden at the back of the Dickerson estate.

Three years ago, when I first arrived, I looked every bit the country woman I was: plain clothes, wide eyes that betrayed I'd never seen anything like this world.

The one who'd hired me was Nora Dickerson, the family matriarch.

Nora's reputation had never been spotless. As the old patriarch Marcus Dickerson's mistress—even though she hadn't known he was married at the time—she'd been the subject of endless gossip.

Things only began to shift after she gave birth to Les. She took the Dickerson family's settlement money and struck out on her own, raising her son independently.

But fate had a cruel sense of humor. Marcus Dickerson's legitimate sons either died or disgraced themselves, and by the time the old man lay on his deathbed, Les was the only one left who was even remotely presentable.

Just like that, Les became the Dickerson family heir.

Outsiders marveled at Nora's luck. Only she knew whether this windfall of fortune was truly a blessing—or a curse.

By then, Les and Constance were already married. Nora had never imagined the family legacy would fall to her son, so she'd let him marry whomever he pleased.

Constance Dickerson came from an ordinary background—nothing that would turn heads in high society.

Old Mrs. Dickerson and I were from the same hometown. Watching her daughter-in-law run the household into the ground, she'd sent for me specifically.

I was just a middle-aged woman from the countryside, but the old lady understood something most people overlooked: when it came to reading people and navigating the unspoken rules of life, folks like us—rough hands and all—knew just as much as any city dweller.

"Effie, the only thing I can't stop worrying about is my daughter-in-law. She's never managed a household this size. If the staff try to take advantage of her, I need you to keep an eye on things for me."

I can still see Nora's kind, gentle face as she spoke those words to me.

"Ma'am, if you trust me with this, I won't let you down."

From my very first day in the Dickerson household, I took my post. And there I stayed—for three years.

For the sake of that one request to "keep an eye on things," I gave those three years everything I had. I could say with a clear conscience that I never cut a single corner.

The Dickersons employed plenty of servants back then, but somehow every task landed on my shoulders.

"Ma'am, shouldn't we divide up the household duties? It would be much more efficient."

When I carefully broached the idea with Mrs. Dickerson, that refined woman didn't even glance up at me. She sat there inspecting her nails, and after a long pause, offered a flat reply.

"We'll see. Just focus on your own responsibilities, Effie."

And so it went. Three years passed, and not a single task was ever reassigned.

Everything in the Dickerson household—inside and out—ran through my hands.

The other servants only pitched in when the family hosted guests, and even that was because Constance thought I wasn't presentable enough to be seen. She wouldn't let me anywhere near those events, afraid I'd embarrass her.

Over the years, the Dickerson family's fortunes had steadily grown. The people coming and going were all prominent figures.

As Les and Constance's social engagements multiplied, I spun like a top from dawn to dusk.

Every night when the couple came home late, what greeted them was always the same: my smile and a hot meal waiting on the table.

At some point, I'd become the person in the Dickerson household who was on call around the clock.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a moment to myself. In hazy, exhausted moments, it sometimes struck me that I was more like Les and Constance's own mother than their housekeeper. The bitter irony was that despite calling me "Mrs. Lambert" to my face, neither of them had ever truly given me a second thought.

To them, I was a machine. My wages were the fuel that kept me running—nothing more, nothing less.

It wasn't as though I never had time off. The first year, during the holidays, Les and Constance gave me a full month's rest.

I remember it clearly. I had just finished packing and was about to walk out the door when one of the maids came rushing toward me in a panic. Constance had slipped and fallen—the baby was coming early.

I didn't think twice. I dropped everything and got her to the hospital.

The other maids were falling apart, completely useless. I was terrified too, but I held myself together long enough to get Constance settled in. Somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, I managed to call Les.

That holiday, I spent in the cold corridor outside the hospital room.

On the other side of the wall, Les and his new family of three were laughing and celebrating.

Just like that, I lost my first real break.

The second year, I asked for time off again. Constance shut me down immediately.

"Effie, I'm still in my postpartum recovery. If you leave now, what am I supposed to do with the baby?"

I stood there, caught off guard.

"Ma'am, you could hire a maternity nurse. Honestly, this isn't really my area of expertise..."

I'd only meant to offer Mrs. Dickerson a helpful suggestion. I never expected her to dismiss it entirely—worse, to take it as a sign that I was trying to shirk my duties.

"What do we need a maternity nurse for when we have you? Effie, my mother-in-law didn't bring you here so you could take it easy. If everyone just came and went as they pleased, what kind of household would this be?"

One sentence, and I had nothing to say.

What I wanted to say was that any servant in this house had more days off than I did—and that in all my time here, this was the first time I'd ever asked for anything.

But I swallowed the words.

In the third year, Mrs. Dickerson became pregnant with Joseph.

Looking back over those three years, it struck me all at once: I had been away from home for three full years and hadn't gone back. Not once.

A sour ache spread through my chest. I blinked, and tears slipped down my face without a sound.

Three years. What had I gotten in return?

The first year, the Dickersons paid me three hundred dollars a month—room and board included.

Nora told me this was what city people called a probation period. Once it ended, my salary would go up to a thousand, same as the other staff. She said she'd already arranged it with Mrs. Dickerson.

The second year, my salary was still three hundred.

The third year, still three hundred.

Unlike the other staff, I didn't have my own meals prepared for me. Every time, I waited until the family finished eating, then cleared whatever was left.

I didn't mind. To me, the Dickersons ate the kind of food I'd never dared dream of back home—rich dishes of meat and fish. And leftovers were what I'd grown up on in the countryside.

As for living arrangements, I was different from the other staff there, too. They were housed in the condo unit next door.

Me? Mrs. Dickerson had me stay in the little structure behind the garden.

"Little structure" was generous. It was two rooms, sixty square feet each.

It wasn't that I never had doubts. Everyone's selfish at the end of the day. When you see people who do less than you living better than you, it's hard not to feel the sting.

I went to Mrs. Dickerson about it.

"Effie, are you really comparing yourself to the other housekeepers? They came through an agency. Their wages get split with the company. How is that the same as someone from the countryside?"

I opened my mouth.

"But ma'am, Nora told me my salary would—"

Mrs. Dickerson smiled. There was something behind that smile I couldn't quite read.

"Effie, you're a servant in my household. Your compensation follows my terms."

I stopped talking.

I'd thought that after everything I'd been through, my heart had gone numb.

But when I heard what Steward Hargrove said, something inside me trembled all the same.

Feeding my appetite?

The truth was, I'd stumbled upon the conversation between Mrs. Dickerson and Steward that day.

"Ma'am, Effie may not have accomplished anything remarkable these past few years, but she's put in the work. Don't you think it's time we gave her a raise?"

I'd been standing not far away. When I heard those words from Steward, my eyes burned.

Not wanting anyone to notice, I turned and left before hearing the rest—which meant I missed whatever Mrs. Dickerson said after that.

When no raise came, I could piece together enough.

Even now, I found it laughable.

For three years, I'd worked myself to the bone—walking on eggshells, pushing through until my body broke down—all for three hundred dollars a month. And Mrs. Dickerson still thought my appetite was too big?

I was the housekeeper, the cook, and the nanny, all rolled into one. Three hundred dollars a month.

Meanwhile, every new hire the Dickersons brought in through the agency started at a thousand.