Wendy made it obvious my grandson wasn’t welcome, not at her wedding, not in her home, and not in her life. My son accompanied it, but I didn’t. I kept smiling, played the doting mother-in-law, and waited for the right moment to display everyone exactly what kind of woman he married.
It was brunch at a pretentious café with concrete walls, loud cutlery, and food that looked better than it tasted. She arrived ten minutes late in a crisp cream blazer and didn’t apologize. She addressed me with a handshake instead of a hug and didn’t once ask how I was.
My son Matthew couldn’t stop smiling. I watched him study her face as she talked about gallery openings and houseplants and something called “intentional design.”
