The first family dinner set the tone. She placed lasagna for everyone—except me. I got a single bowl of lettuce. Then she smiled, sweet and sharp: “You have such a pretty face. It’s a shame your body ruins it.”
I smiled back, lifted my fork, and ate my salad. Inside, something settled—not defeat, but certainty. I wouldn’t fight her with anger. I would fight with clarity.
Next dinner, I arrived with a carefully wrapped box. When she opened it, she froze. Inside: a full-length mirror and a card:
“Since you’re so focused on appearances, I figured you’d want to see your own.”
Her brittle laugh tried to mask the sting, but I saw it flicker in her eyes. I didn’t expect an immediate change. I just wanted her to understand I would no longer sit silently while she chipped away at me.
The subtle war began. Diet brochures left “forgotten” in the bathroom. Toasts laced with comments on portion control. Whispered jabs disguised as concern. Through it all, my husband Arman brushed it off: “She’s old-fashioned,” unaware of the hidden blades in every word.
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