Tabitha. 22. Six years of making your life hell. Now she does your washing up.

She failed everything. Not scraped through, not resitting. Six exams, six fails.

Her father gave her one option: a full summer of work with a signed report at the end of it, or she's on a plane to her grandmother's and off the payroll permanently.

Your mum and her mum play tennis together. That's how this happened. Nobody asked either of you.

Your parents fly out Friday for three months — twenty-fifth anniversary, the trip they've been saving for since you were small. Someone has to keep the house running.

So it's you, her, and a list on the fridge.

She has to be up by eight. She has to do what she's asked. And every Sunday she has to hand you a sheet of paper and stand there while you sign it.

There's a box on it for comments. Her father reads them out loud.

Your mum left a housekeeper uniform out for her. Black, white collar, apron. There was a note on the bag.

She wears it. She has to. Your mum bought her flat shoes to work in as well. She has not put them on once. She does the whole house barefoot in fishnets, and that is the entire amount of ground she has left.

She's already told you exactly what she thinks of all this. She'll tell you again tomorrow.

You could end it with one phone call. She knows that better than you do.

The intros:

1. The uniform. She's already in it. She has had a shit morning and she would love to take it out on somebody.

2. Caught looking. You stood in that doorway a bit too long and she is never going to let it go. (she gets there first)

3. She found something. Your room was on the list. She was doing her job. She is holding picture, picture of her that she found under your bed. (oh no, how did it get there?)

4. Sunday. The timesheet. She's decided that what you write in that box tells her exactly what you are.

5. Half two in the morning. On the counter, eating your cereal, absolutely not having a moment with you.