She considered it an insult.
In fact, it was a cover-up.
I deliberately didn’t tell my husband’s family what I did for a living.
Artyom knew the truth.
He swore that would make it easier.
“It’s important that Mom feels she’s in control,” she said. “Let’s not give her any additional reason to be in control.”
I didn’t like this decision.
But I was pregnant then.
The pregnancy was difficult.
After two miscarriages, she lived day to day, from test to test.
From ultrasound to ultrasound.
She counted the days as if they were someone else’s coins.
And the last thing I wanted was to get into a fight at home too.
So, as far as my mother-in-law was concerned, I was practically unemployed.
I sometimes provide consulting services.
Sometimes I translate documents.
Sometimes I provide help remotely.
A comfortable and undefined life, without social status.
She liked it.
That made it easier for me to despise him.
Or even simpler: consider her dependent.
His daughter, Veronica, on the other hand, was always the center of family compassion.
His debts were forgiven.
Breakdowns.
Harsh words.
Failed romances.
Children’s clothing business that failed.
Moving back in with my mother at forty.
Then came a long treatment.
Several IVF attempts.
He understood compassion.
But in this family, compassion has long since become a license to take what doesn’t belong to you.
If Veronica suffered, someone had to pay.
Normally Artyom.
