Margaret came by that Sunday with a casserole dish and a face like cold weather. Daniel followed two steps behind, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Mother used to set the table that way,” Margaret said, eyeing my linen runner. “Patricia. In case you forgot her name.”
“I didn’t know your mother, honey. But the runner can come right off if it bothers you.”
“You’ll spill it.”
“Everything about this bothers me,” she retorted.
Garrett cleared his throat from the doorway.
“Margaret. That’s enough.”
She gave him a small, tight smile and didn’t apologize. Her brother wouldn’t even meet my eyes.
***
The comments kept coming week after week.
A remark about my dress being “a bit much for a woman your age.” A question about whether I’d “ever worked a real job.” Once, Margaret asked, right at the dinner table, what exactly I thought I’d be inheriting.
The comments kept coming.
“Margaret,” Garrett said quietly, “Eleanor isn’t a topic of conversation. She’s my wife.”
“She’s your mistake!”
My husband set his fork down. I’d never seen his jaw set that way.
“You will NOT speak to her like that in my house!”
***
Later, in the hallway, I heard Margaret hiss something about “Mom’s memory” and “that paperwork you promised.” Garrett’s voice came back low and steady, but I couldn’t catch the words. I went upstairs and pretended I hadn’t heard a thing.
“She’s your mistake!”
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