She considered it an insult.
In fact, it was a cover-up.
I deliberately did not tell my husband’s family what I did for work.
Artyom knew the truth.
He swore that it would become easier that way.
“It is important that the mother feels she is in control,” she said. “Let’s not give her an extra reason to be in control.”
I did not agree with this decision.
But I was pregnant at the time.
The pregnancy was tough.
After two miscarriages, she lived from day to day, from test to test.
From ultrasound to ultrasound.
She counted the days as if they were other people’s coins.
And the last thing I wanted was to get into a fight at home as well.
As far as my mother-in-law was concerned, I was therefore practically unemployed.
I sometimes offer advisory services.
Sometimes I translate documents.
Sometimes I offer remote assistance.
A comfortable and undefined life, without social status.
She liked it.
Because of that, I could despise him more easily.
Or even simpler: consider her dependent.
His daughter, Veronica, on the other hand, was always the center of affection within the family.
His debts were forgiven.
Malfunctions.
Harsh words.
Failed romances.
Children’s clothing company that went bankrupt.
When I was forty, I went back to live with my mother.
A long treatment followed.
Multiple IVF attempts.
He understood what compassion entailed.
But in this family, compassion has long since become a license to take what is not due to you.
If Veronica suffered, someone had to pay for it.
Normally Artyom.
