And somehow, I was always the one on trial.
My mother-in-law, Patricia, had disliked me from the moment I married her son, Dave. But over time, dislike hardened into something colder. Something sharper.
Hatred.
Patricia had a special talent for cruelty disguised as politeness. She was the type of woman who wore ivory to weddings and smiled sweetly when someone pointed it out.Oh this old thing?” she would say lightly. “It’s cream.”
She could insult you with perfect manners and then look genuinely shocked when you noticed.
But her favorite target wasn’t just me.
It was my son.
Sam is five years old. He has my dark curls, my olive skin, and my eyes. Dave, on the other hand, is pale, blond, and blue-eyed.Patricia never stopped pointing that out.
At family dinners she would tilt her head thoughtfully and say things like, “Funny how genetics work.”
