Chapter 2

Margaret has two sons.

I'm married to the oldest, and Kayla is married to the youngest.

Both couples have solid careers, but when my husband and I tied our knot, Margaret didn't contribute a single dime.

Instead, she drained her entire retirement fund helping her youngest buy a house and a car, with the unspoken agreement that she'd have a permanent suite under his roof.

After the wedding, the plan was for him and Kayla to move Margaret into their place in the suburbs.

But two years crawled by, and Margaret was still stuck in her old house.

Later, when Margaret went through a rough health scare, I stepped up and brought her into our home.

I made a quiet vow to treat her with the same devotion I'd show my own mother.

I refused to believe that the "monster-in-law" trope had to be my reality.

So, when I saw Margaret still wearing Kmart specials from five years ago, I took her on a spree.

I'd march her through the boutiques and buy her entire seasonal wardrobes, just swiping my card without checking the price tags.

Since her skin was weathered from years of hard labor in the rural heartland, I took her to an upscale medical spa.

I signed her up for a gold-tier annual membership on the spot, telling her to bring her girlfriends along so she could play the generous host.

If she complained about a backache over breakfast, a top-of-the-line heated massage chair would be delivered to the front porch by noon.

Whenever she mentioned that those gourmet organic grocers had better produce, I made sure our fridge looked like a high-end catalog.

Eventually, she stopped asking for things directly—she just started dropping loaded hints instead.

I never held it against her; I moved heaven and earth to make sure every whim was met.

Honestly, I treated her better than I treated my own mother—she was always the priority.

Even my husband, David Carter, told me I needed to pump the brakes, worried I was turning her into a spoiled brat.

But I just bit his head off for suggesting it.

Parents spend their whole lives grinding for their kids, so when those kids finally make it big, of course they should give their folks the five-star treatment.

None of it was about "performing" or trying to win some twisted popularity contest.

I just wanted a happy, functional family without all the toxic drama or keeping a balance sheet of favors.

But if you look at Kayla and her husband's side of the street...

Ever since Margaret moved to Fairview, they've been dodging her like she's a debt collector, keeping as much distance as humanly possible.

Yet, when it came to projecting the "perfect family" image on social media, they were absolute professionals.

Whenever Margaret caught a bug, all they ever did was send a half-hearted text or a five-minute call.

Just told her to take some Tylenol and sleep it off.

If she had a craving for something specific, their response was always, "That's too much sodium for someone your age, you can't have that."

Every Thanksgiving or Sunday dinner, they'd waltz into our house empty-handed without so much as a bottle of wine.

Then, on their way out, they'd raid our pantry for "leftovers"—stealing steaks, gourmet fruit, and whatever else wasn't nailed down.

And they always had the same pathetic line. "Mom, you know we want you at our place, but our square footage is just so tight, we'd hate for you to feel claustrophobic. Sophia's house is a mansion, you're much better off here."

A year ago, they actually promised Margaret they'd drive her out to the Grand Canyon once things settled down at work, and she was over the moon about it.

But a year later, that promise was still gathering dust, never even close to happening.

In the end, David and I were the ones who cleared our schedules and took Margaret to the Canyon over Labor Day weekend.

When we got home, Margaret actually had the nerve to feel guilty, like she'd betrayed Kayla and her husband by not waiting for them.

For this birthday, in addition to the Four Seasons reservation, I'd also picked up a Cartier bracelet—I wanted to surprise her with something truly special.

To be honest, I'd be shocked if Kayla and her husband even knew what day it was.

And if they did remember, they'd probably just toss a box of store-brand pasta on the stove and call it a celebration.

I always assumed that at her age, after everything she's seen, Margaret would be a better judge of character than I am.

But apparently, in her head, Kayla and her husband are the "real" ones—the only ones she thinks have a sincere bone in their bodies.

Meanwhile, I'm just the one playing a part, a total fraud in her eyes.