My eighteen-year-old brother reached for one piece of chicken at dinner, and my mother-in-law slapped him so hard his fork hit the plate. “You greedy little freeloader!” she screamed. My husband didn’t defend him. He looked at me and said, “Don’t make this worse.” Four years of keeping the peace ended right there—because Diane still believed she was standing in her son’s house.

She took a sip of coffee.

“It means marriage works best when a man still feels like a man.”

I laughed because I thought she was joking.

She wasn’t.

Ethan later told me not to take it personally.

That became another phrase I heard often.

Don’t take it personally.

She doesn’t mean anything by it.

That’s just Mom.

Let it go.

Keep the peace.

At some point, keeping the peace stopped meaning that everybody compromised.

It meant I did.

The townhouse became one of Diane’s favorite subjects.

I bought it seven months before Ethan and I got married.

I had been saving for years.

My company was doing well, and I wanted a place in the city that I could afford without stretching myself too thin.

The down payment came from my savings.

The mortgage was in my name.

The deed was in my name.