My mother-in-law slapped me across the face on Christmas night.
The force knocked me sideways.
My hip struck the edge of the dining table.
A porcelain bowl tipped.
Boiling soup poured across my left hand.
Pain exploded through my skin.
I screamed.
For one second, the entire room went silent.
Then somebody laughed.
It was Daniel’s cousin.
A nervous little laugh.
The kind people make when they know something terrible has happened but
are too cowardly to admit it.
I looked at my husband.
Daniel Mercer sat at the head of the Christmas table with one hand
around his wineglass.
I had defended that man for seven years.
Covered his debts.
Explained away his temper.
Lied to my own sister when she asked why I always seemed exhausted after
visiting his family.
I thought seeing me burned would finally force him to choose.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair.
“Maybe now you’ll learn how to behave in this family.”
Something inside me went quiet.
Not broken.
Quiet.
I looked at my mother-in-law, Patricia Mercer.
She stood over me in a burgundy Christmas dress.
Her hand was still raised slightly from the slap.
“Get up,” she said.
“You’re embarrassing everyone.”
My hand shook.
My cheek throbbed.
And somehow I was the embarrassment.
I reached for my wedding ring.
Daniel frowned.
“What are you doing?”
I pulled it off.
Placed it beside his plate.
“I’m done.”
Patricia smiled.
“Good.”
She pointed toward the foyer.
“Then leave.”
I stood.
The room tilted from pain.
Before I could take one step, the dining room door opened.
My father-in-law walked in carrying a thick brown envelope.
Robert Mercer had been missing from dinner for nearly forty minutes.
Nobody had seemed concerned.
Now he stopped.
His eyes moved to my burned hand.
Then my face.
Then the ring beside Daniel’s plate.
“What happened?”
Nobody answered.
Daniel finally sighed.
“Emily’s being dramatic.”
