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.
