“It does cost me, Mike. And I’m not lying. If your Aunt Linda asks what I do, I’ll tell her.”
“You make everything harder than it has to be.” He slapped the steering wheel. “Look at Steve’s wife. She’s great. Stays home, raises the kids, supports her husband. And you? You’re married to your job.”
“Then go marry Steve’s wife,” Marina said coolly. “Just keep in mind Steve’s wife won’t be buying you a new phone or paying for the beach trip you wanted in October.”
Mike went quiet, sulking. Money always shut him down, though it also brought out the ugly part of him. He hated depending on her, but hated admitting it even more.
The car turned onto the street leading to Eleanor’s house. Several vehicles were already parked out front. Family had started arriving. Marina felt something tighten in her chest. Her instincts told her this night would end badly. Too much had built up over the past few months. Eleanor had been pushing harder, testing how much she could get away with.
“And one more thing,” Mike said, killing the engine and turning toward her. “Mom made aspic. You need to try it and tell her it’s good. Even if you hate it. Got it?”
“I don’t eat aspic, Mike. You know that.”
“Just take a bite and say it’s good. Don’t be difficult, Marina. It’s her birthday. Just do what I’m asking.”
He got out of the car without waiting for an answer and went to the trunk for the cake. Marina stayed in her seat a few seconds longer, gathering herself. She looked at her reflection in the rearview mirror: tired eyes, tight mouth. Difficult, she thought. Fine. If that was the role they wanted, maybe it was time to stop trying so hard to be agreeable.
She got out, squared her shoulders, and put on the polite smile she kept for work and family functions. The air smelled like wet leaves and charcoal from somebody’s backyard grill. At the gate, Aunt Linda stood wrapped in a bulky cardigan, watching them arrive with open curiosity.
“Well, look who finally made it,” she called out before either of them had even said hello. “We were starting to think you’d show up after dark. Eleanor’s been in a state.”
Marina walked up and nodded politely.
“Hi, Aunt Linda. We’re not late. There’s still time.”
“Maybe, but help sure is,” the woman muttered, giving Marina a once-over. “All dressed up, I see. Bet that dress wasn’t cheap. Who’s helping in the kitchen? Eleanor’s doing everything herself.”
Mike was hauling the cake box out of the trunk.
“Hey, Aunt Linda. Where’s Mom?”
“Inside, where else? Go on, your mother’s been waiting. And you, Marina, take your coat off and get in the kitchen. There are still salads to finish.”
Marina clenched her jaw. Same script as always. Invited as a guest, treated like unpaid staff.
“I’ll put my things down and come in,” she said, polite but cool, and walked past her into the house.
The entryway smelled like roast meat, strong perfume, and that stale closed-up-house scent older homes sometimes carry no matter how clean they are. Marina hung up her coat and carefully set the box with the massager on a side table.
“Mikey! My boy! You’re here!” Eleanor’s voice boomed from deeper inside the house.
She swept out of the kitchen, drying her hands on an apron thrown over a sparkly dress. She was a large, commanding woman with sprayed hair and the kind of presence that filled a room whether you wanted it to or not.
“Happy birthday, Mom!” Mike dropped the cake box onto a chair—Marina winced, hoping the frosting survived—and rushed in to hug her.
Eleanor kissed him on both cheeks, leaving pink lipstick marks behind.
“Thank you, sweetheart! Look at you. So handsome. Just like your father.”
Marina stood off to the side, waiting. When the embrace ended, she stepped forward.
“Happy birthday, Eleanor. Wishing you good health and a wonderful year.”
Eleanor looked at her. The smile tightened. Her eyes cooled.
“Oh. Marina. Hello. Well, thank you for bringing my son. I was beginning to think you’d worked him into the ground. He looks exhausted. Are you feeding him at all?”
“Mike eats just fine,” Marina said evenly. “We brought your gift. It’s on the table there.”
Eleanor glanced at the expensive box without moving toward it.
“Fine, let it sit. I’ll look later. I’ve got a roast in the oven. No time for boxes. Marina, don’t just stand there. Go mash the potatoes. You’re dressed like you’re headed to a gala, but this is a family gathering. We’re simple people here.”
She turned and shuffled back toward the kitchen. Mike gave Marina a guilty look but said nothing and followed his mother. Marina was left alone in the dim hallway, staring at the unopened gift she had spent $500 on. The first warning bell rang loud enough that even she couldn’t ignore it. This wasn’t casual rudeness. This was going to be a performance.
Marina exhaled slowly, trying to steady the quick beat in her chest. Just a few hours, she told herself. Eat, smile, leave. Then she headed for the kitchen.
Eleanor’s house always made her feel boxed in. Low ceilings. heavy furniture. glass cabinets full of old crystal. It all felt like a museum of grievances. Even the air seemed thick with old resentments.
The kitchen was chaos. The counters were crowded with bowls of salad, platters of sliced meat, jars of pickles, serving spoons, foil, and half-finished dishes. Eleanor moved between the stove and sink with the frantic energy of a woman determined to be seen suffering.
“Finally,” she said over her shoulder without looking at Marina. “Grab the masher. Potatoes are on the stove. Milk’s in the fridge, butter too. And move fast. People are sitting down in ten minutes.”
Marina walked over to the stove. A large pot of potatoes was steaming.
“Eleanor, do you have an apron? I don’t want to ruin my dress.”
Eleanor snorted and turned to face her.
“An apron? What did you think was going to happen tonight? You knew you’d be helping. Or did you think you’d show up, sit pretty, and be waited on? There’s an old dish towel hanging over there. Use that if you’re so worried.”
The “dish towel” was a stained kitchen towel that had clearly seen better years. Marina picked it up with two fingers.
“I’ll just be careful.”
“Sure you will,” Eleanor said, pulling a roasting pan from the oven with a dramatic grunt. “And make sure there are no lumps. Mike has hated lumpy potatoes since he was little. He has a sensitive stomach. Not like you. I’m sure you’re used to grabbing takeout and calling it dinner.”
Marina said nothing and started mashing. There was no point engaging. Eleanor was looking for a fight and warming up for it.
“By the way,” Eleanor went on, basting the roast, “have you put on weight? That dress looks tight. Better watch it. Men notice those things. Mike’s still young. He’s going to start looking around if you let yourself go. Men are visual. And you weren’t exactly a beauty queen to begin with.”
That one landed where it was meant to. Marina had been self-conscious about the extra few pounds she’d gained under stress. Hearing it from a woman who hadn’t seen her own waistline in years would’ve been funny if it weren’t so mean.
“I’m fine with how I look, Eleanor,” Marina said coolly, adding butter to the potatoes. “And Mike has never complained.”
“Oh, please. He wouldn’t say it to your face,” Eleanor said with a dismissive wave. “He’s too polite. But he talks to me. Says you’ve gotten frumpy. Says he comes home and you’re tired, cranky, and all you talk about is work and bills. Says life with you is dull.”
Marina froze, the masher still in her hand. Mike said that?
