THE MORNING THAT STARTED WITH ANGER
The daughter-in-law was still asleep at 11 a.m.
By the time Mrs. Dalton noticed, her patience had already worn thin.
The wedding had ended past midnight. Guests had left crumbs on every table, grease stains on the stove, and muddy footprints across the living room tiles. While the newlyweds disappeared into their room amid teasing laughter and slammed doors, Mrs. Dalton stayed behind — scrubbing plates, wiping counters, stacking chairs.
She told herself it was normal.
That this was what mothers did.
Still, when she finally lay down near 2 a.m., her back felt like it had been split in two.
At 5 a.m., she was awake again.
Not because she wanted to be.
Because habit wouldn’t let her sleep.
She swept the floors again. Washed the last batch of dishes. Wiped the dust from the banisters. By mid-morning, her hair clung damply to her temples, her feet throbbed, and her hands smelled of detergent.
Upstairs, silence.
Too much silence.
She glanced at the clock.
10:45 a.m.
Her lips tightened.
“Emily! Get down here and start cooking!” she shouted from the bottom of the stairs.
No response.
“Emily! Wake up!”
Still nothing.