"My daughter is dead! Just wait—she’s going to pay for it!" My mother-in-law wailed dramatically, her words as cutting as the winter wind.
Nicole had swallowed a few sleeping pills in her bid for attention, yet here I was, accused of murder.
I turned to my husband, but his only response was a weak gesture of kindness—a tissue held out like a peace offering. The sight of him pretending to care broke something inside me.
I smiled through the pain, took the tissue and wiped my tears. Then, as though possessed by a different spirit, I approached my mother-in-law with an uncharacteristic calmness.
