Chapter 5: The Price of Obedience

Survival of the fittest.

It was like living inside a never-ending episode of Survivor, only the prize was a bowl of soup and one more sunrise.

I didn’t dare die, so I had to endure. I had to persevere, or I wouldn’t survive.

There was no time for self-pity. I grit my teeth, kept my head down, and worked until my fingers bled. Some nights, I’d count my breaths and remind myself: one more day, one more chance.

Four years passed. I rose from unpaid intern maid to a menial maid earning $5 a month. Then, because the old lady praised my skill at feeding the chickens, I became a second-class maid at her side, earning $20 a month.

My knuckles were raw, my back ached, but I’d made it. The old lady—Mrs. Whitaker’s mother—liked the way I handled her Rhode Island Reds, and suddenly, I was promoted. My pay went up, and for the first time, I had a little change jingling in my pocket.

Twenty dollars was no small sum. A dollar could buy a loaf of bread. By today’s prices, that’s about $400 a month.

I saved every cent, tucking bills into a cracked mason jar beneath the floorboards. Sometimes, I’d count it at night, dreaming about what it could buy: a train ticket west, a room of my own, maybe even a college course if I ever got out.

With money in hand, I worked even harder.

Success was addicting. I scrubbed harder, watched every detail, made sure the old lady’s slippers were always waiting at the end of her bed. I’d learned that the best way to survive was to make myself indispensable.

I’d studied the humanities and majored in management. The invisible hand of the market really couldn’t save me here. I knew nothing about making soap or gunpowder like other transmigrated women, and my embroidery and needlework were mediocre at best.

While some girls could charm or sew, all I had was a knack for planning and keeping things running. I couldn’t bake a perfect pie or embroider a handkerchief to save my life, but I could keep a kitchen running smoother than a diner on Sunday.

The only thing I excelled at was making snacks, so I poured my effort into that. As long as the old lady was willing to taste something, I’d spend hours perfecting it.

I scrounged recipes from the other maids—cornbread, ginger snaps, honey butter biscuits. I’d sneak into the kitchen after hours, experimenting with whatever ingredients I could find. When Mrs. Whitaker nodded in approval, I felt a warmth that almost made me forget everything I’d lost.

In this household, the bosses are everything, and performance reviews are just a word from their mouths. Only by pleasing them could I hope for better days.

It was like living in a small-town business, where the owners held all the cards and your next raise depended on their mood. Still, I knew the drill: keep your boss happy, and you just might survive another season.