I’ll never forget that evening. It was supposed to be a simple family dinner — just my husband, his mother, and me. I had spent hours getting ready, wearing a new cream-colored dress I’d saved for months to buy. I even styled my hair the way my husband liked — soft curls, neat and elegant.

But from the moment I walked into that restaurant, I felt it. The tension.

“Emily,” she said in that tone that always made me feel two inches tall, “I didn’t realize cream was still considered a color for women your age.”

I was 33. Not ancient by any means, but Margaret always had something to say — about my job, my cooking, my appearance, even the way I breathed.

My husband, Mark, just smirked. “Mom, be nice,” he said, but his grin showed he enjoyed it.

Dinner went as awkwardly as expected.

Margaret dominated the conversation, bragging about her neighbor’s son who had just been promoted. When I tried to share about my own work — how I had closed a big deal that day — Mark interrupted.

“She’s been lucky lately,” he said, chuckling. “But let’s see if she can keep it up.”

Lucky. That’s how he described years of my hard work.

I tried to brush it off, focusing on my meal. But then the waiter came by with a bottle of red wine. Margaret smiled. “Oh, Mark, let’s celebrate your promotion! Pour us all a glass.”

Mark lifted the bottle and began pouring. Then, just as the waiter turned away, he “accidentally” tilted it too far — and a cascade of red splashed all over my dress.