My mother-in-law pointed at the door during New Year’s dinner and snapped, **“If you don’t like my rules, get out!”** – Welcome

angry.

I looked down.

My index finger was tapping against the arm of the chair.

Thomas smiled.

I stopped immediately.

“Don’t look pleased.”

“I’m not, dear.”

“You are.”

He sighed. “Maybe a little.”

For several hours, we talked about my mother.

About how badly she sang while washing dishes.

How she’d once driven forty miles back to a gas station because she’d forgotten continue reading …