That night in bed, I told Andrew, “Your mom keeps making digs about my job.”
He kissed my forehead.
“She’s old-fashioned. Don’t let it get to you.”
So I tried not to.
Then Dolores started “helping.”
She’d show up with groceries I hadn’t asked for.
“I noticed your fridge was a little empty,” she’d say, breezing past me into my kitchen.
Dolores rearranged my drawers.
“This makes more sense,” she said.
“You’ll thank me later.”
My MIL also texted me lists of meals she thought I should cook.
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