I thought patience and kindness would eventually earn me a place in my husband’s family. Then one discovery made me realize I had been playing a game I could never win.
Two dresses hung from my fingers, and neither felt like enough armor for what was coming.
The navy one looked like I was trying too hard. The black one looked like I had given up. I needed something that said, “I know exactly what you’ve been doing, Lori, and I brought receipts.”
“Maybe I should just wear chain mail,” I muttered to the mirror as Biscuit blinked at me from the bed.
Three years earlier, when I married Mason, I truly believed I had married into a wonderful family. Mason was kind and thoughtful, the man I wanted to spend my life with, and I thought love would smooth over everything else.
Then the comments started.
Small ones at first, tucked between hugs and family photos.
Mason’s mother, Lori, never really accepted me. Whatever I did, it was never quite right.
“Oh, Samantha, honey, we usually don’t put that much salt in the potatoes, but it’s fine.”
“That’s a bold color on you, sweetheart. Very bold.”
And her favorite, always delivered with a soft, knowing smile:
“Some women are wives, and some are the love of a man’s life.”
It didn’t take much thought to know who she meant.
Cheryl. Mason’s ex-girlfriend.
Somehow, Cheryl showed up at every birthday, holiday, and Sunday dinner, always looking slightly surprised to be there. Lori acted as though it was coincidence, but I eventually realized she was inviting her.
At the last gathering, I watched Cheryl from across the table. She kept fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve and barely looked at Mason. She didn’t seem triumphant. She looked like someone counting the minutes until she could leave.
At the time, I assumed it was guilt.
I laid the black dress on the bed and picked up my phone.
Mason had texted from downstairs.
“You okay up there? Mom confirmed seven sharp tomorrow. You sure about the dress yet?”
I stared at the word “Mom” and felt irritation rise.
“I’m good,” I typed. “Be down in a minute.”
The maddening part was that Mason really was a good man. He held my hand during movies, made tea when I was sick, and remembered every anniversary.
But around his mother, he went quiet. He gave me apologetic looks across the table and hoped I could read the sorry in them while everyone moved on and I pretended none of it hurt.
After three years, I was tired.
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