Chapter 3: A Maid’s Life

On my eighth birthday, I became a menial maid in the Whitaker family.

No cake, no candles—just a chipped blue bowl of oatmeal with a drizzle of molasses—nothing fancy, but the closest thing to comfort I’d tasted in months. The other girls sang to me in whispers, and for a moment, I almost felt normal.

That day, I drank the oatmeal and genuinely felt happy.

It was warm, sweet, and heavy in my stomach after months of hunger. No celebration, but the memory of comfort was enough.

Mrs. Carter, in charge of keeping us in line, prepared it specially.

She bustled around the kitchen in sensible shoes, ladling out oatmeal like gold. Her face was lined, hair pinned tight, voice steady—a rare anchor in this world.

The oatmeal got thicker every day, and by the seventh day, each of us got half a dinner roll.

At first, it was watery gruel, barely more than flavored milk. But Mrs. Carter added a little more each morning—a scoop of oats here, a pat of butter there. By the end of the week, we got a half-stale roll to dip. It felt like a feast.

Though Mrs. Carter seemed strict, she was good. I knew she worried that after starving, we couldn’t handle rich foods.

She watched us, making sure no one stole or overate. “Slow and steady wins the race,” she’d say, tapping her glasses. I realized she was doing her best to keep us alive, even if her kindness came wrapped in sternness.

The Whitaker mansion was built on military merit and run with iron discipline. Even a minor mistake by a servant meant a beating of twenty strokes.

It was a place where everything had its place, order kept at the end of a stick. The air always felt tense, like thunderclouds before a storm. People didn’t whisper—they scurried.

On the third day after we arrived, we heard the screams echo down the hallway, then the sickening silence that followed. That night, nobody slept. I pressed my pillow over my ears, but the sound wouldn’t leave.

All eight of us maids were so scared we had nightmares. Two timid girls even wet the bed and were punished by Mrs. Carter with two days of laundry duty.

Afterward, our sleep was haunted by screams. We’d wake up gripping each other’s hands, faces slick with sweat. The girls who wet the bed sobbed through the night as they scrubbed sheets by hand. Mrs. Carter’s punishments were merciful compared to others, but it was still more work piled onto endless exhaustion.