When I married Ryan two years ago, I wasn’t naïve about his mother.
Margaret never bothered hiding her disdain for me. She’d narrow her eyes slightly every time I entered a room, as if my mere presence offended her.
“She’ll come around, Cat,” Ryan would say, squeezing my hand under the dinner table as his mother ignored me entirely and spoke only to him.
But she never came around.
Not to me.
And certainly not to Emma (5) and Liam (7), my children from my first marriage.
I’ll never forget the moment I realized Margaret hated me.
