I looked at Ethan, hoping to find even a trace of regret.
Nothing.
Only anger.
Embarrassment.
And that ridiculous pride that always appeared whenever his mother was around.
“Don’t ever raise your voice at my mother again,” he snapped. “Especially not in her own house.”
Her own house.
My eyes traveled across the imported Italian chandelier.
The curved staircase I had personally insisted be reinforced for safety.
The custom stone fireplace.
The massive family portrait hanging above it, featuring Ethan, Margaret, and me.
Although in the painting I stood slightly behind them, almost like part of the background.
The afternoon had started like countless family lunches in Greenwich, Connecticut.
Expensive wine.
Perfectly arranged meals.
Fake laughter.
And Margaret finding new ways to humiliate me in front of everyone.
First, she complained that I didn’t know how to run a household.
Then she started criticizing “modern women” who wanted luxury without sacrifice.
Finally, staring directly at my stomach as if it were some public disgrace, she said:
“And she still hasn’t given Ethan a child. Some women are simply born empty inside.”
The uncles looked away.
The cousins suddenly became fascinated by their phones.
Ethan kept cutting his steak.
Silent.
I laughed.
Not a real laugh.
A short, exhausted, bitter sound.
Three years of insults.
Three years of backhanded comments.
Three years of being reminded that I should feel grateful Ethan had chosen me.
