It started as an ordinary morning in the Wellington mansion. The house gleamed, the silverware sparkled, and the scent of freshly baked croissants floated through the air. Sunlight streamed through the tall French windows, catching on the crystal chandeliers and bouncing across the spotless marble floor.
Helen, the housemaid, stood nervously at the edge of the kitchen, twisting her apron. For eight years, she had worked tirelessly — ironing, cooking, cleaning — always on time, never complaining. She knew the rhythm of the house better than anyone: when Mr. Wellington liked his coffee, how Mrs. Wellington preferred her roses trimmed, and exactly how many minutes it took the cat to fall asleep after lunch.
But that morning felt different. Perhaps it was the way the sunlight hit her face, or perhaps she was simply tired of being taken for granted. Either way, something inside her decided it was time for a change. She took a deep breath, smoothed her apron, and stepped forward.
Mrs. Wellington sat at the breakfast table, elegant as ever with her diamond glasses perched on her nose, flipping through the morning paper. A cup of Earl Grey steamed beside her, untouched. She didn’t even look up when Helen entered — a small reminder of how invisible good help could become.
Gathering every ounce of courage, Helen cleared her throat. “Ma’am,” she began softly, “I’d like a raise.”
The sound of the newspaper folding was deafening. Mrs. Wellington slowly raised an eyebrow and adjusted her glasses. “A raise, Helen?” she said coolly. “And why, exactly, do you think you deserve that?”
Helen, clearly prepared for the question, clasped her hands and answered with calm confidence. “I have three reasons.”
Mrs. Wellington leaned back, intrigued. “Three reasons? Well, this should be interesting. Go on then.”
Helen took a deep breath. “First,” she began, “I iron better than you.”
Mrs. Wellington’s lips twitched slightly, but she said nothing. Helen continued, “Second, I cook better than you.”
Now the eyebrow arched higher. “Really?” Mrs. Wellington asked with an icy smile. “And who, may I ask, told you that?”
“Your husband, ma’am,” Helen said politely, her expression completely serious.
For a brief moment, the room went silent except for the ticking clock on the wall. Mrs. Wellington’s fingers froze on the handle of her teacup. But Helen wasn’t done. “And the third reason,” she added, lowering her voice slightly, “I’m better in bed than you.”
The air left the room. Even the clock seemed to stop ticking. Mrs. Wellington’s face went pale, then crimson. After a long, stunned pause, she spoke in a tone so calm it was almost terrifying: “Did my husband say that too?”
Helen smiled sweetly and shook her head. “No, ma’am… the gardener did.”
It took half a second for the meaning to register. Then — chaos. Mrs. Wellington shot to her feet, her chair screeching across the marble. The teacup crashed to the floor, shattering into a hundred porcelain pieces. Somewhere in the hallway, the butler gasped, and the cook nearly dropped a tray of scones.
Within minutes, the entire mansion was buzzing. The driver poked his head in to “check on the noise.” The pool boy conveniently appeared with a towel over his shoulder, pretending to look for cleaning supplies. Even the gardener, blissfully unaware of what had just been said about him, wandered in holding a bouquet of roses.
By lunchtime, the Wellington mansion had transformed into something out of a soap opera. Voices echoed down the corridors, accusations flew, and the poor gardener nearly quit twice before anyone explained what was going on. Mr. Wellington returned from his business meeting just in time to hear his name shouted from three different rooms.
In the end, Mrs. Wellington decided not only to give Helen the raise but also a week off — though not as a reward. Her new assignment? Supervising the gardener’s marriage counseling sessions.
Helen accepted the news with her usual politeness, though she couldn’t resist muttering under her breath as she left the room, “Next time, I’m just saying I dust better.”
As for the Wellingtons, life slowly returned to normal — or at least, their version of it. Mrs. Wellington became noticeably kinder to the staff, Mr. Wellington started making his own breakfast, and the gardener learned to think twice before sharing compliments.
From that day forward, Helen’s story became a quiet legend among the household staff across the neighborhood — whispered at kitchen tables and servants’ quarters with laughter and admiration.
Moral of the Story:
Be careful what you ask your employees — some answers are worth far more than a raise! 😄