Frank was already halfway through his second bottle of beer, the condensation leaving ghostly rings on the polished mahogany. He never used coasters. I’d stopped asking. Peace, I had convinced myself, was more valuable than furniture.

Dinner was a monologue, starring Lisa. Her promotion, her kitchen renovation plans, Katie’s grades at the private school Frank and I helped pay for. I played my part, asking questions, feigning interest, being the supportive matriarch I was expected to be. Frank, meanwhile, began his usual litany of complaints: the house was too cold, the meat was too dry, I used too many dishes. Each criticism was a small paper cut, insignificant on its own, but together, they bled me of my spirit