Chapter 7
The next month was full of small, ordinary moments.
The kind Dr. Rao had talked about.
The kind that test you.
I went over to the apartment for dinner every Tuesday and Thursday night.
I cooked.
I cleaned up afterward without being asked.
I listened.
Really listened, when they talked.
I didn’t interrupt.
I didn’t get defensive if they brought up something bad I’d done in the past.
I just said, “You’re right. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
I learned a lot about my mother-in-law in those weeks.
Things I’d never bothered to ask before.
She’d been a teacher for 30 years.
She loved gardening, even though her arthritis made her hands hurt too bad to do it anymore.
She’d traveled to 12 countries when she was young, before she got married and had my husband.
She had a whole shelf of romance novels she read over and over again.
She hated cilantro.
She loved old country music.
She’d always wanted a daughter, and she’d been so happy when my husband married me.
Every new thing I learned made my chest ache a little more.
I’d lived with this woman for three years.
And I’d known nothing about her.
I’d treated her like a robot, there only to do my chores.
She was a person.
A wonderful, interesting, kind person.
And I’d almost destroyed her.
One Saturday, I was at the grocery store buying ingredients for dinner.
I ran into Linda, my old best friend.
The one who’d called me a monster at the party.
She was pushing a cart full of wine and fancy cheese, getting ready for another one of her dinner parties.
She saw me and smirked.
“Well, look who it is,” she said, her voice loud enough for the people in the next aisle to hear.
“The monster of Maple Street. Heard your family left you. Serves you right, letting that old woman ruin your birthday party like that. I always said she was nothing but trouble.”
I felt the old anger rise up in my chest.
Hot.
Sharp.
For a second, I wanted to yell at her.
To tell her to mind her own business.
To make a scene, just like I used to.
Then I took a deep breath.
I counted to 10.
Just like Dr. Rao had taught me.
I looked her right in the eye.
“Don’t you ever call her that,” I said, my voice calm and steady.
“She is not an old woman. She is my mother. And she didn’t ruin my party. I did. I was cruel. I was abusive. I was a monster. And I’m lucky she’s even giving me a second chance to be better.”
Linda’s smirk faded.
She looked shocked.
“Wait,” she said.
“You’re defending her? After she ruined your dress?”
“That dress was just fabric,” I said.
“She’s family. Family is more important than any stupid dress. Or any stupid party. Or any fake friend who only cares about how things look, not how people feel.”
I turned my cart around and walked away.
I didn’t look back.
When I got to my car, I pulled out my phone and blocked Linda’s number.
I blocked all of my old party friends’ numbers, actually.
They weren’t good for me.
They only cared about the surface.
About being perfect.
I didn’t want perfect anymore.
I wanted real.
That night, I was at the apartment making dinner.
My mother-in-law was sitting at the kitchen table, helping me chop vegetables.
Suddenly, she gasped and dropped her knife.
She grabbed her right hand with her left, her face white with pain.
“Mom?” I said, rushing over.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Arthritis,” she said, gritting her teeth.
“Flare up. Happens sometimes. My hands just… lock up. Hurt so bad I can barely move them.”
I looked at her hands.
They were swollen.
Red.
The knuckles were big and twisted.
I knew why.
Three years of scrubbing pots.
Scrubbing floors.
Washing clothes by hand when I thought the washer didn’t get them clean enough.
I’d done this to her.
I’d caused this pain.
“Come on,” I said, gently taking her good hand and leading her to the couch.
“Sit down. I’ll get your meds.”
I found her arthritis medicine in the bathroom cabinet.
I got her a glass of water.
I heated up a rice pack in the microwave and wrapped it around her bad hand.
Then I sat on the floor in front of her and took her hand in mine.
I rubbed it gently, just like the pharmacist had told me to, working the cream into her swollen knuckles.
I did that for an hour.
Rubbed her hands.
Got her more water.
Changed the rice pack when it got cold.
My husband and daughter sat with us, watching TV, talking quietly.
No one told me I had to do it.
No one asked.
I just did.
Around 10, my mother-in-law fell asleep on the couch.
Her head was tilted to the side, her mouth open a little.
I was still holding her hand.
She squeezed it in her sleep.
Soft.
Trusting.
My husband knelt down beside me.
He put his hand on my back.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For taking care of her.”
I looked up at him.
“I should’ve been taking care of her this whole time,” I whispered back.
“Instead of making her take care of me. I’m just glad I get to do it now.”
He leaned down and kissed my forehead.
A soft, gentle kiss.
The first kiss he’d given me in months.
“You’re doing good, Mia,” he said.
“Really good.”
That night, when I drove home, I cried happy tears all the way.
I was doing good.
I was really doing good.
I still had a long way to go.
I still had to pay back the rest of the money.
May you like
I still had to earn back their full trust.
But for the first time in a long time, I believed I could do it.
