“Mother used to set the table that way,” Margaret said, studying my linen runner. “Patricia. In case you forgot her name.”
“I didn’t know your mother, honey. But the runner can come right off if it bothers you.”
“Everything about this bothers me,” she retorted.
Garrett cleared his throat from the doorway.
“Margaret. That’s enough.”
She offered him a small, rigid smile but no apology. Daniel refused to look at me.
—
The remarks continued week after week.
She commented that my dress was “a bit much for a woman your age.” She asked whether I’d “ever worked a real job.” Once, during dinner, Margaret openly questioned what I expected to inherit.
“Margaret,” Garrett said quietly, “Eleanor isn’t a topic of conversation. She’s my wife.”
“She’s your mistake!”
My husband placed his fork on the table. I had never seen his jaw tighten like that.
