The day after the wedding, she dropped it.
“Julie,” she barked, like she’d been waiting her whole life to use that tone on me. “What are you doing standing there? The dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.”
Her voice echoed through the house like a siren.
I blinked, confused.
Larry stood beside her, rubbing the back of his neck, half-smiling like it was cute.
“Mom’s just… like that,” he said.
Just like that.
As if cruelty was a quirky personality trait.
After the wedding, Larry insisted we live with Olivia.
He told me his father had passed away, that his mother had a leg injury, that she “couldn’t manage alone.”
He begged.
He pleaded.
He made it sound like I’d be heartless to refuse.
I agreed because I thought I was marrying a man.
I didn’t realize I was marrying an entire system built to serve his mother.
Because when I arrived, Olivia was walking just fine.
Not only fine—fast.
She moved through the house like a general inspecting troops, pointing out flaws like she was grading me.
“Kitchen floor needs scrubbing.”
“Laundry’s not folded right.”
“The garden’s a mess. You’re the daughter-in-law, aren’t you? Do your job.”
And every day, Larry did nothing.