My husband, Daniel, arrived that evening with nothing but a suitcase and a distracted smile. He told me he was proud of me, kissed me on the cheek, and poured himself a drink while checking his phone. I noticed the silence between us, but I ignored it. I told myself that sometimes peace comes quietly.
That night, as the sky darkened and the sea took on silvery reflections under the moon, my phone rang.
It was my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitman.
Her voice was dry and already irritated.
“Claire, we’re moving in tomorrow,” she said. Without a word. Without a pause.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“My son has already given his consent,” she continued. “Your house is too big for the two of you. That makes sense.”
I slowly turned towards Daniel. He was sitting on the sofa. Silent. He was avoiding my gaze.
“I didn’t give my consent,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
Margaret laughed softly. “You don’t need to ask permission. The family doesn’t ask for permission.”
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