It started like every other Sunday dinner at her place—polished silverware, undercooked salmon, and my mother-in-law’s casual cruelty disguised as conversation. “You know, Layla,” she said as she passed me the steamed broccoli, “some women prefer to be homemakers. Not everyone is built for high-pressure careers.”  Then it was a comment about my outfit—“Oh, that’s bold! I used to wear things like that before I g t married and… matured.” Another smile. Another nod. Eron just kept cutting his salmon like it was his job to avoid conflict. Typical.

But I stayed polite. I always did. My therapist called it “emotional aikido.” Smile, deflect, survive. Then she brought up my mom. We were in the kitchen clearing plates when she leaned in, like she was sharing a secret. “Your mother was always so… emotional, wasn’t she? I remember at the wedding, she cried through the whole toast. I suppose you get that from her. All that sensitivity.” That was it. I turned around so fast I nearly knocked over the stack of dessert plates.

“No,” I said, loud enough that Eron looked up from the dining room. “No, we are not doing that.” Her smile flickered. “Doing what, dear?” I could feel the burn behind my eyes. “Talking about my mom like she was some fragile mess just because she showed feelings. You don’t get to do that. You’ve said things about me, and I let it slide. But her? No.” I didn’t even realize I was shaking until I saw the spoon in my hand trembling. Then Eron walked in.

And what he said next changed everything. “Mom, stop,” he said firmly, standing between us. His voice had an edge I’d never heard before. “You need to apologize.” The room went silent. Even the hum of the refrigerator seemed to pause. His mother blinked, her mouth half-open, clearly stunned by his intervention. She straightened her posture, trying to regain control of the situation. “Eron, darling,” she began, her tone sugary but laced with irritation, “I’m simply making conversation. Surely there’s no harm in that.”