The Guest Who Destroyed My Family Chapter 1

Fiona, a friend of my mother’s, had run out of options. Fleeing a marriage filled with infidelity and domestic abuse, she brought her daughter to our estate to seek refuge.

My mother had originally planned a romantic candlelight dinner with my father. To keep Fiona company and offer her comfort, my mother canceled those plans.

My father was furious. He gave my mother the silent treatment for weeks.

Fiona, playing the part of the perfect, unobtrusive guest, volunteered to stay in the smallest guest room on the ground floor, the only one without an en-suite bathroom. Because of this, she always waited until the dead of night to shower.

One night, she stepped out of the communal bathroom just as my father returned late from the office.

She was completely naked. Letting out a startled gasp, she covered herself and sprinted back to her room.

My father didn’t say a word.

A few days later, he returned from a business trip. Along with a bottle of imported perfume for my mother, he casually handed Fiona a designer lipstick.

My mother just smiled, remarking on how generous and open-minded my father had become.

That fleeting happiness didn't last. Three months later, on the exact date of my parents' wedding anniversary, my mother suffered a massive psychological break.

She ended her own life.

* * *

My mother, Eleanor, was never a picky woman, but if there was one thing she despised with every fiber of her being, it was fennel.

My father, Charlie Valmont, loved my mother. For years, fennel was practically banned from the Valmont estate simply because the smell made her nauseous.

Yet, a month before her death, my father suddenly developed a massive craving for roasted beef with fennel.

Eager to please him, my mother ordered bags of the stuff on their anniversary. She was going to cook him a feast.

Fiona stood in the kitchen, offering a sickly sweet smile as she praised my mother for finally catching on to what a man truly wanted.

I was only seven at the time. My memories from back then are hazy in places, but I was always more observant than my mother. I vaguely remember one undeniable fact.

Fiona’s favorite dish in the world was roasted beef with fennel.

When I pointed this out to my mother, she just stroked my cheek with a gentle hand. She told me I was such a thoughtful little girl, Serena, and that she would make sure to leave a large portion just for Auntie Fiona.

My mother was hopelessly oblivious.

Since the day she married my father, she was kept like a prized canary in a gilded cage. She never lifted a finger, spending her days shopping, traveling, and floating through life.

She never cared about my report cards. Whenever she picked me up from school, she would be dressed to the nines, only asking if I had fun that day.

When I handed her a test with a perfect score, pouting because she didn't seem to care, she would just pull me into a tight hug and promise to take me out for ice cream.

Her hugs always smelled like expensive vanilla. They were warm. Safe.

After she died, I would squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to recall the warmth of her embrace.

But all I could smell was the lingering, pungent stench of fennel coming from the kitchen.