Inside that house I had less status than Doris’s pampered poodle because at least the dog received affection when it misbehaved. No matter what I did the result was always wrong. If the food tasted salty she claimed I was trying to cause a heart attack, and if it tasted bland she accused me of being stingy with ingredients.
When guests visited I worked until my back hurt preparing meals, but once the guests left she would criticize everything about my manners and appearance.
Once I developed a fever over one hundred two degrees and could barely stand upright. Doris stood at the bedroom door and shouted impatiently, “Stop pretending you are dying because the family needs dinner.”
I forced myself out of bed and cooked a three course meal before collapsing again without even pouring water for myself. That was how I lived for five long years until the energetic young woman I used to be slowly faded into a quiet ghost who rarely spoke.
I did try to fight back once by asking Travis for help. He hugged me and promised to talk to his mother, yet I heard her furious voice through the bedroom wall moments later.
“So you choose your wife over your own mother now?” she shouted angrily.