The first thing my mother-in-law destroyed wasn’t my wedding photo. It was the illusion that I had married into a respectable family.
On the third morning of my marriage, I came downstairs in a silk robe and discovered eleven strangers gathered around my dining table.
My husband, Adrian Vale, stood beside the window, pale and silent. His mother, Veronica, was seated at the head of the table as though the house belonged to her.
“Good,” she said when she saw me. “The bride is finally awake.”
I stopped halfway down the stairs. “Why are there people in my home?”
Veronica smiled. “Family.”
One aunt had a notebook. An uncle carried a folder. Two cousins were drinking the coffee I had purchased the night before.
Adrian wouldn’t look at me.
Veronica tapped her fingers against the table. “Sit. We need to establish rules before bad habits form.”
I almost laughed.
