“Your budget ran out. When we finish, if there’s anything left, you can eat that.”
My mother-in-law, Theresa, placed an entirely empty plate in front of me.
For several seconds, I honestly thought I had misunderstood her.
I looked at the plate.
Then at her.
Then around the table.
There was more than enough food for everyone.
The dining room table was overflowing with prime cuts of steak, garlic-butter shrimp, imported cheeses, expensive wine and a huge seafood platter Theresa had ordered especially to celebrate the birthday of her favorite daughter-in-law, Lauren.
There was food everywhere.
Except in front of me.
My name is Mariana. I was 37 years old, and I had been married to Daniel, Theresa’s youngest son, for four years.
That evening, I had arrived after working almost 12 hours at my office.
I sat down beside my husband, expecting at least a simple greeting.
Daniel didn’t even look up.
“You’re late,” he muttered while cutting another piece of steak.
Theresa reached across the table, selected the finest piece of meat and placed it on Lauren’s plate. Then she added a generous spoonful of garlic shrimp.
