Twelve hours. I had worked almost twelve hours that day, and the table in front of me was groaning under the weight of everything I had bought and prepared: prime steak, garlic-butter shrimp, imported cheese, good wine, a seafood platter sized for twice the number of people actually sitting there.
And in front of my chair — one empty white plate.
“We’ve run out of food for you,” my mother-in-law Theresa said, not looking up. “When everyone finishes, maybe there’ll be something left.”
Across the table, Lauren — Theresa’s favorite daughter-in-law — had a plate piled so high the shrimp were sliding off the edge. My husband Daniel kept cutting his steak, eyes down. I waited. Surely he would say something. Surely this was the moment he would finally speak up for me.
Instead, without meeting my eyes, he murmured, “Mom’s just like that. Don’t make a scene.”