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.
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