Don't Fire The Housekeeper

The Mercedes was gone.
My heels clicked on the polished concrete of the garage, the sound echoing in the empty space where the G-Wagon should have been.

Susan? I called out, walking into the house. Did you see where the Mercedes went?

The housekeeper, Mrs. Evans, was lounging on my custom-made Italian leather sofa, shelling pistachios. The television blared a daytime talk show, and she didn't bother to look away from the screen when I walked in. "My son took his girlfriend out for the day," she said, her tone casual, as if she were talking about the weather. "It's hard to get around without a car. You weren't using it, so I told him to go ahead."

I stared at her, at the discarded pistachio shells scattered on the floor around her. "You let your son take my car?"

"You have other cars," she said, finally turning to look at me, her expression one of mild annoyance, as if I were the one being unreasonable. "And you hardly ever drive that one. Better to let Derek get some use out of it than let it just sit there collecting dust." She tossed another shell onto the pile. "He'll even put gas in it for you. See? He's practically doing you a favor. Cars fall apart when you don't drive them."

My jaw tightened. "I want you to call your son. I want him to bring my car back. You have two hours."

She sighed, a heavy, put-upon sound. "Oh, don't be so dramatic. They're all the way downtown. It’s not convenient for them to come back now. Don't be so stingy."

I didn't say another word. I turned, walked straight to my bedroom, closed the door, and dialed 911.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Hello," I said, my voice steady. "My name is Kate Holloway. I need to report a stolen vehicle."

Less than half an hour later, a frantic pounding erupted on my bedroom door.

"Kate! Open this door right now! You get out here!" Mrs. Evans shrieked, her voice raw with fury.

"You have the guts to call the cops on my son, but not the guts to open this door? Get out here, you little bitch!"


1

This woman, Susan Evans, had become a tyrant in my own home. Her audacity was breathtaking.

I’d overlooked her earlier transgressions, chalking them up to cultural differences or a lack of professional boundaries. I had even tried to gently remind her of her role, to suggest that she refrain from commenting on my personal life.

She hadn’t listened. If anything, my polite requests had only emboldened her. She’d started treating my deference as weakness, my home as her own, and my life as a project she needed to manage. She began speaking to me not as an employer, but as a disapproving, overbearing mother-in-law I never asked for.

It started small. Expensive cheeses and bottles of wine disappearing from the fridge. Then came the constant, unsolicited advice. She’d sneer at my takeout containers, telling me I’d never find a husband if I didn't learn to cook. She’d leave sinks full of dishes and patches of dusty floor for me to clean when I got home from a twelve-hour workday, clucking her tongue about my "laziness."

The absurdity peaked last week. Her daughter was coming for a visit, and because my house is in a gated community a good forty-five minutes from the city, she demanded that I leave work early, pick her daughter up from the train station, and stop at the gourmet market for fresh lobster on the way home. "Cindy just loves lobster," she'd said, "and I'm going to make her my special bisque."

Even my own health routines became her property. I’d ask her to prepare my morning collagen drink, and she’d make two—one for me, and one for herself. Mine would be the plain powder dissolved in water. Hers would be a concoction brimming with organic berries, manuka honey, and goji powder from my pantry. When I asked why mine was so spartan, she’d replied, with no hint of shame, "You only asked for the collagen. You didn't say to add anything else."

The final straw before the car had been the truffle oil. A friend had brought me an incredibly rare, expensive bottle of white truffle oil back from a trip to Italy. I came home one day to find her complaining of a stomach ache. The bottle of oil, nearly full the day before, was almost empty. She didn't apologize. She blamed me. "You shouldn't keep things that are so rich in the house. It's not good for people."

And now this. Handing the keys to my 4000-1000050,000 vehicle to her son so he could impress his girlfriend. I’d only noticed because the garage door was left wide open when I pulled in tonight, a gaping invitation to any opportunist in the neighborhood. The moment I saw the empty space, I knew she was behind it.

Forget the sheer entitlement—think of the liability. If her son, Derek, got into an accident, if he hurt someone, I was the registered owner. I would be the one sued. If he couldn't pay, the financial and legal fallout would land squarely on me.

I had tried to be reasonable. I had planned to just demand the car back and let it go. But her attitude when I walked in—lounging on my sofa like she owned the place, the floor littered with her mess—ignited a cold fury in me. A housekeeper, a professional, should at the very least stand up when her employer gets home. She should ask if I’ve eaten, if I need anything.

Instead, she’d just gestured vaguely towards the kitchen with a pistachio-filled hand. "Dinner's in the fridge. You can heat it up yourself."

A glance into the kitchen confirmed my suspicions. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, and the trashcan overflowed with the carcasses of a roasted chicken and empty oyster shells. She’d hosted her son for a feast in my home before sending him off in my car.

I wasn’t hungry anymore. I went to my room, took out my phone, and made the call.

"Yes, 911? I need to report a stolen car. The GPS tracker shows it’s currently near the waterfront district in the next city over." My voice was calm, almost detached. "That's right. It was taken from my home. Without my knowledge or permission."

Thirty minutes later, the banging began.

2

"Kate, did you call the police?" Susan Evans screamed through the door. "Derek just called me. The police have him pulled over!"

The pounding intensified. "I know you're in there, Kate! Stop hiding and come out here and face me! You coward!"

I took a deep breath, walked to the door, and opened it. Susan’s face was a mask of crimson rage. "Are you out of your mind? I told you he was just borrowing it! I said he'd put gas in it! What is wrong with you?"

She advanced on me, stabbing a finger in my direction. "He was just taking his girlfriend for a drive! Is that a crime? You have so many cars, what does it matter if he borrows one? Does it take a pound of your precious flesh?"

Her voice rose to a fever pitch. "I have worked my fingers to the bone in this house! I've earned a little consideration! And you call the police over something this small? Now my son is being held by the police in another city! You're humiliating him! If his girlfriend breaks up with him over this, will you take responsibility for that?"

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