Emily would leave at seven-thirty in a fitted suit and expensive perfume, rushing out with her phone already in her hand. Daniel left half an hour later. Sometimes he kissed my forehead. Sometimes he just said, “Thanks, Mom,” without looking up.
And I stayed behind.
I cleared the dishes. I ran the laundry. I scrubbed the sinks. I mopped floors that never seemed clean enough for Emily. Every afternoon when she came home, she inspected the house like a health inspector.
“Mother-in-law, the mirrors have spots.”
“Mother-in-law, Michael’s shirt wasn’t ironed right.”
“Mother-in-law, why did you use so much detergent? It’s expensive.”
Never Beatrice. Never Betty, the name my friends had called me for years. Just “Mother-in-law,” as if it were a title for a servant and not a relationship.
The children truly loved me. That part was real. Michael hugged me when he got off the bus. Sarah fell asleep in my lap while I read to her.
But every time Emily saw us like that, something in her expression tightened. One day Sarah said, right in front of Emily, “Grandma, I love you more than Mommy.”
That night I heard shouting through the wall.