Stealing From Me For Her Son

Fresh out of prep school and heading into my freshman year at NYU, my parents decided I needed a support system. That support system came in the form of Mrs. Albright, a live-in housekeeper they hired to make sure I didn't subsist entirely on iced coffee and takeout.

The arrangement imploded the day I brought home a new handbag. It was a sleek, limited-edition pieceretail price: seven thousand dollars.

When Mrs. Albright found out the price tag, she didn't just disapprove; she detonated.

"You are spending my son's money!" she shrieked, her face turning a blotchy red. "Seven grand for a bag? Youre ruining this family before youve even started."

I blinked, genuinely confused. "Excuse me? Your son makes, what, three grand a month? Why would you think I'm using his money? My quarterly trust fund distribution is twenty grand a month. I spend what I want."

Mrs. Albright stood there, chest heaving with indignation, unable to form a coherent argument but clearly furious.

A week later, I noticed a few of my designer clutches were missing from the closet.

When I called her, she didn't even try to hide it. She sounded smug, almost self-righteous. "I sold them. If you want to marry my son, you need to learn how to be thrifty. I'm helping you save."

I hung up and dialed 911. Mrs. Albright stopped feeling so smug after that.

01

Ive never been good with dorm life. The communal showers, the noiseit wasn't for me. Since my parents, Richard and Catherine, were constantly jet-setting for business, they bought me a pre-war condo in the Village and installed Mrs. Albright to keep the place running.

The day the dividend hit my account, I treated myself. I walked in the door, the Chanel shopping bag swinging from my arm.

Mrs. Albright was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables. She wiped her hands on her apron and zeroed in on the logo. "Blaire, honey, that looks expensive. How much did that set you back?"

I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the sofa, reaching for the remote. "About seven thousand."

The knife hit the cutting board with a violent thwack.

"Blaire!" She spun around, abandoning the dinner prep. "How can you be so reckless? Seven thousand dollars on a bag? That is my son's hard-earned money you're throwing away! He busts his back for three thousand a month, and you blow twice that on leather?"

I sat up, the remote dangling from my hand. I looked at her like she had grown a second head.

"Mrs. Albright," I said, my voice dropping to a cool, confused register. "I spent my money. What on earth does your son have to do with my finances? I get a five-figure allowance from the trust every month. If I want to burn it, thats my business. Youre the housekeeper, not my financial advisor."

Her face went from pale to a deep, embarrassed crimson. She opened her mouth, closed it, and then turned back to the counter aggressively.

"Just make dinner, please," I said, turning on the TV. "Don't stress yourself out over things that don't concern you."

My parents really needed to vet their staff better.

02

Mrs. Albright had been with me for a month. In the beginning, she was fineprofessional, even motherly in a distant way. But lately, the boundaries were blurring. She was sliding into my life in ways that made my skin crawl.

She finally set a plate of pasta on the coffee table.

"Blaire," she chided, pointing at my feet. "Put some socks on. Walking around barefoot is bad for a woman's constitution. You need to protect your fertility." She fetched my slippers and placed them right in front of me.

Despite her annoying commentary, she wasn't bad at the job. The apartment was clean, the food was edible. I didn't want the hassle of interviewing new candidates, so I let it slide.

Halfway through dinner, she hovered near the sofa, wringing her hands. "Blaire, did I upset you earlier?"

I looked up. Her eyes were wide, pleading. I softened. Maybe I had been too harsh.

"Look," she started, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm not trying to boss you around. But seven grand is... it's a lot. The economy is terrible right now. Making money is hard. Your parents work themselves to the bone for every cent. You're a college student now; you should learn some empathy. Your classmates aren't buying things like that. They care about value. A bag that expensive needs maintenance. A nice hundred-dollar tote is just as good, and you can toss it when youre bored."

She sounded so reasonable. So maternal. For a second, the guilt pricked at me. My parents were always working. Maybe I was being a brat.

"You have a point," I admitted, putting down my fork. "Okay. You know that extra two hundred a week Ive been giving you for 'inflation' costs on groceries?"

I looked at her with wide, innocent eyes.

"Ill stop giving you that. I should be saving, right? I asked around, and five hundred a week is plenty for one person's groceries. Ill start being thrifty right now."

Mrs. Albrights face fell. The sympathetic mask cracked. She tried to stammer a protest, but I had already turned back to my pasta, my expression closed off. She shut her mouth, but I could feel her glaring at the back of my head.

03

The next morning, the vibe in the kitchen was frigid.

Mrs. Albright slammed a plate of eggs onto the table. "Blaire, gather up your dirty laundry from yesterday. Put it in the machine yourself. Youre too lazy. If you keep acting like a princess, your future in-laws are going to laugh you out of the house."

She said it casually, like she was commenting on the weather.

I frowned, looking up from my phone. "Mrs. Albright, that is literally your job description. Housekeeping, laundry, cooking."

She stared at me, eyes cold and hard as flint. "I'm teaching you a lesson."

I didn't blink. I just pulled up the agency app on my phone and started scrolling through profiles. One more month, I told myself. Then shes gone.

She started washing the dishes, clanging the pots together with enough force to wake the neighbors.

"Mrs. Albright," I said without looking up. "Volume."

She grunted and stomped off to my bedroom to collect the laundry anyway.

04

By the next day, the mood swung again. Mrs. Albright was beaming, practically radiating sunshine.

She insisted on eating with me. She had cooked enough food for an armysteaks, sides, three different salads. I could never finish it, and she always packed the leftovers to take home to her family.

I had asked her to cook less, but she claimed she wanted me to have "options." Consequently, the grocery budget was always maxed out. I wasn't stingy, but looking back, I realized I was funding her familys dinners every night.

"Blaire," she said between bites, "you can afford this place... your parents must give you a hefty allowance, right?"

I raised an eyebrow. "It's sufficient. Why?"

She set down her fork, leaning in with that fake-concerned look again. "I've been thinking. You have all this cash, and clearly, you have a hole in your pocket. As a favor, Ive come up with a system. You give the money to me. Ill hold it for you. When you need something, you ask."

She paused, scanning my face for a reaction. Seeing none, she pushed her luck.

"Of course, I won't just give you whatever you want. Maybe... a hundred dollars a day? Thats three thousand a month. Youd save a fortune."

I dropped my fork. The clatter echoed in the silence.

"Mrs. Albright," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "My money is my money. I don't need a custodian. Especially not an employee."

"I'm just trying to help!" she snapped, her tone shifting to anger. "You spend money like water! Two thousand on shoes, seven thousand on a bag... if you keep this up, when you marry my..."

She clamped a hand over her mouth.

I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. "Marry who? What were you going to say?"

"Nothing. I just meant... when you marry into someone's family, you can't blow your husbands money. You need to plan for the future."

"My future isn't your concern."

"Blaire, I care about you!"

"I don't need your care," I said, standing up. "Finish out the month. Then youre done. Were clearly not a good fit."

Panic flashed in her eyes. She practically threw herself out of the chair and onto her knees.

"No! Blaire, please! I'm sorry!" She actually slapped her own cheek, hard enough to leave a mark. Tears welled up instantly. "Don't fire me! My whole family depends on this check! Please, I beg you!"

She grabbed my leg. I recoiled, horrified. It was a performance, grotesque and desperate. I told her to get up, but she refused until I mumbled that I wouldn't fire her immediately.

I had hired a drama queen.