How my father-in-law averted his eyes.
And how the other relatives just hesitated without stopping her.
It was as if nothing could be said to explain or fix what had just happened.
There was something deeply wrong under the surface, something I couldn’t name but felt deeply, like the air had suddenly thickened around us.
My days since then are a mix of keeping up appearances and navigating silent threats.
I maintain my job at a small accounting firm, coming home to late-night phone calls from my husband asking if I’m okay.
And the cold politeness of my mother-in-law when we pass in the hallway.
The tension is a quiet pressure pressing down on everything I do, a constant balancing act to avoid provoking further outbursts.
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