"How are you helping?" Ophelia's voice rose. "You're always drinking, gambling, and owing people money. You're never there for Mom or me."
Marcus's face reddened, but Ophelia continued, her anger spilling out.
"You've been promising to help for months, but nothing ever changes. You're still stuck in your old habits, while Mom suffers."
Marcus's eyes dropped, shamefaced. "I...I didn't mean to hurt anyone."
Ophelia's list of grievances poured out. "You've maxed out your credit cards, borrowed from shady lenders, and lied to Mom about paying bills. You're suffocating us with your debt."
Their mother weakly intervened, "Ophelia, stop. Please."
But Ophelia couldn't stop. "You're not even trying to find a job or pay back your debts. You're just using Mom's sickness as an excuse to indulge in your vices."
Marcus's face contorted, a mix of anger and shame. "That's not true...I'm trying."
Ophelia's voice cracked. "Try harder, Marcus. Mom needs us now."
The tension between them was palpable, until finally, Marcus stood, his eyes welling up. "I'll do better, sis. I promise."
Ophelia's anger slowly dissipated, replaced by a deep sadness. "See that you do, Marcus. For Mom's sake."
As Marcus left, Ophelia felt a weight settle on her shoulders. She couldn't rely on her brother.
****
Early the next day, Ophelia rose before dawn, her heart still heavy from the confrontation with Marcus. She began her daily routine, finding solace in the familiar tasks. She mixed and baked a batch of fresh cookies, the aroma filling her small apartment and lifting her spirits.
As she packed the warm cookies into a wicker basket, Ophelia's thoughts turned to the elderly residents at Oakdale Home. She had been visiting them every week for months, sharing stories and laughter. Today was no exception.
With the basket securely in hand, Ophelia set out into the crisp morning air. The sun was slowly rising, casting a golden glow over the quiet streets. She walked briskly, enjoying the peacefulness of the morning.
Upon arriving at Oakdale Home, Ophelia was greeted by the friendly face of Mrs. Thompson, who sat in her favorite armchair.
"Good morning, dearie!" Mrs. Thompson exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. "You brought your famous cookies, I presume?"
Ophelia smiled, handing Mrs. Thompson a warm cookie. "Of course! How's everyone today?"
As she made her way through the common room, Ophelia was enveloped by the residents' warm smiles and grateful eyes. She handed out cookies, listening attentively to their stories.
There was Mr. Jenkins, a World War II veteran, who spoke of his time in the service. Next to him sat Mrs. Patel, who shared tales of her childhood in India.
Ophelia sat with Mrs. Rodriguez, holding her hand as they talked about her late husband. The elderly woman's eyes misted, but Ophelia's presence brought her comfort.
For a brief moment, Ophelia forgot about her own troubles – Marcus's struggles, her mother's illness, and the looming interview. The residents' stories and laughter reminded her of the beauty in life.
As she prepared to leave, the residents thanked her for the cookies and companionship.
"Come back soon, dear," Mrs. Thompson said, patting Ophelia's hand.
Ophelia smiled, feeling a sense of purpose. "I will, Mrs. Thompson. Promise."
With a lighter heart, Ophelia left Oakdale Home, ready to face the day ahead – and the crucial interview with the Brooks family.
After visiting Oakdale Home, Ophelia returned to her apartment, her mind shifting to the impending interview. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the challenge ahead.
With precision, Ophelia began preparing for the interview. She ironed her best dress, a simple yet elegant black outfit, and polished her shoes until they shone. Her dark hair was styled in a neat bun, and a hint of makeup accentuated her features.
As she grabbed her bag, Ophelia's eyes fell on the address scribbled on the notepad: 123 Oakwood Drive. The Brooks family lived far from the city, nestled deep within the woods.
With GPS guidance, Ophelia navigated the winding roads, the trees growing denser and taller as she drove. The asphalt pavement gave way to a gravel path, and the woods seemed to close in around her.
The GPS announced her arrival, but Ophelia's doubt grew. The dense foliage obscured any signs of life. Had she taken a wrong turn?
Suddenly, a majestic gate materialized before her, its black ironwork gleaming in the morning light. The gate's intricate design featured the Brooks family crest: an oak tree with sprawling branches.
Ophelia's heart skipped a beat. This was it – the Brooks family's estate.
With trembling fingers, Ophelia punched the intercom button.
"Welcome to Oakwood Manor," a warm voice responded. "Please state your name and business."
"Ophelia Johnson, here for the housekeeping interview," she replied, her voice steady.
The gate swung open, revealing a winding driveway that disappeared into the trees.
As Ophelia drove up the driveway, the manor house came into view, its grandeur taking her breath away.
As Ophelia's car rounded the final bend in the driveway, the majestic Oakwood Manor unfolded before her. The ancient house loomed, its stone façade weathered to a warm, honey-brown hue. Ivy crawled up the walls, as if attempting to reclaim the structure for nature.
The manor's Gothic architecture spoke of a bygone era, its turrets and towers reaching toward the sky like sentinels. Stained glass windows, intricate and colorful, filtered the morning light, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the driveway.
A grand entrance, flanked by massive oak doors, beckoned visitors. The doors, adorned with heavy iron hinges and a sturdy knocker in the shape of a lion's head, seemed to whisper tales of centuries past.
To the left of the manor, a tranquil garden unfolded, with meticulously manicured lawns and vibrant flowerbeds. A meandering stone path invited strolls, while a weathered fountain babbled softly, its melody carried on the breeze.
On the right, a dense forest encroached, as if eager to reclaim the estate. Towering trees, their branches twisted and gnarled, stood sentinel, their leaves rustling in the gentle wind.
As Ophelia stepped out of her car, the manor's imposing presence enveloped her. She felt the weight of history within these ancient walls, the whispers of generations past echoing through the halls.
With a deep breath, Ophelia smoothed her dress, gathered her belongings, and approached the entrance. The heavy door creaked open, revealing a warm, golden light within.
"Welcome to Oakwood Manor, Miss Johnson," a deep voice greeted her.
The man who greeted Ophelia was a picture of starched formality. His butler's uniform, tailored to perfection, was adorned with a silver nameplate on his chest: "Finley." His tall, lean frame stood ramrod straight, exuding an aura of discipline.
Finley's face was a map of stoic reserve, his features chiseled from granite. His eyes, cold and expressionless, seemed to bore into Ophelia's very soul. His dark hair was slicked back, revealing a sharp widow's peak, and his thin lips were pressed into a firm line.
As he stepped aside, allowing Ophelia to enter, Finley's movements were economical and precise, betraying no hint of emotion. His voice, low and measured, dripped with courtesy, but his tone was unmistakably aloof.
"Please, follow me, Miss Johnson," Finley said, his eyes never leaving hers. "Mrs. Brooks awaits you in the library."
With Finley leading the way, Ophelia felt a shiver run down her spine. The butler
's imposing presence seemed to embody the very essence of Oakwood Manor: formal, austere, and unyielding.