I had seen that look before. I’d seen it on abusive partners explaining away a broken arm, and on addicts swearing they were clean while their pupils were pinned to pinpricks. It was the look of someone constructing a narrative that didn’t align with reality.

“Diane! Don’t just stand there in the shadows,” Beatrice called out, her voice pitching up an octave, dripping with a sugary sweetness that set my teeth on edge. “Come see what I’ve made for our precious Emily.”

I walked over, my grip tightening on my glass. Keep it together, Diane, I told myself. Don’t be the bitter mother-in-law from the working class. Play the game.

Beatrice was holding a ceramic pitcher, an antique thing painted with delicate, hand-spun blue flowers. It looked fragile, precious, and utterly out of place next to the modern catering trays.