Adam’s mother.
The matriarch.
Queen of the house, even though she didn’t technically live there; she had a luxurious apartment in the city, but she was at the estate so often that Clara sometimes forgot her official address.
Margaret Hamilton was one of those women who would notice if someone moved a vase three inches to the left.
She wore pearls in the kitchen and drank her coffee as if she’d been offended.
Clara respected her.
She also feared her.
Everything changed one Tuesday morning.
Clara arrived at 7:30 a.m. as usual, the September air fresh enough to make her button up her cardigan more tightly as she walked from the bus stop to the long driveway.
Inside, the estate was silent. The staff entrance opened onto the foyer, then into the kitchen: a vast, gleaming space with marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances that Clara cleaned four times a day.
She hung her coat in the small staff closet, slipped on her indoor shoes, tied her hair back, and checked the handwritten list on the counter.Margaret’s list.
A new one every day.
TUESDAY:
Polish the dining room silverware
Change the sheets in the guest bedroom (blue suite)
Deep clean the upstairs bathroom
Breakfast 8:00 – oatmeal, fruit, coffee (no sugar)
Clara smiled.
She liked lists.
They made everything seem manageable.
She put a pot of coffee on to boil—strong, black, two cups always ready for Margaret at 8:05 sharp—and started preparing breakfast.
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