Chapter 1

The air in the car was thick and heavy, and it wasn't just the stale recycled air from the A/C. It was Martha. My mother-in-law sat in the passenger seat, a rigid statue of disapproval, radiating a coldness that fought the humid summer air trying to seep in from outside.

"Are you sure you know where you're going, Liam?" she asked, her voice sharp. "We've been on this highway for an hour. It shouldn't take this long to get from the airport."

"We're almost there, Martha," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the road. "There was an accident reported on the main route, so the GPS took us a different way."

"The GPS," she scoffed. The words sounded like a disease in her mouth. "A real man would know his way around his own city without a machine telling him where to turn."

Beside her, my father-in-law, Robert, said nothing. He just stared out his window, a silent, weary passenger not just in my car, but in his own life. The silence from his side of the car was almost as loud as Martha' s complaints.

I tried to ease the tension, a stupid, familiar habit. "Well, it's a big city. And I wouldn't want to get you stuck in traffic after your long flight."

"I would rather be stuck in traffic than lost in the middle of nowhere with you," she shot back. "At least in traffic, I'd see other competent people."

My hands tightened on the steering wheel. I could feel the familiar burn of frustration creeping up my neck. I was the target again. It always came back to me. Every conversation, every problem, every minor inconvenience was somehow my fault. Her daughter, Olivia, my wife, had chosen me, and Martha had never forgiven either of us for it.

"I'm not a 'real man' in her eyes," I thought to myself. I was a writer. I worked from home, from the small office I'd built in our spare bedroom. I didn't wear a suit or commute to a high-rise building. I built worlds with words, but in Martha's world, that didn't pay the bills in a way she could respect. She couldn't brag to her friends about my quarterly reports or my promotions. All she saw was her daughter married to a man who stayed home in his pajamas and typed. This extended visit, for what she claimed were some medical tests, was going to be a long, slow torture.

We finally pulled into the driveway of the small suburban house Olivia and I had bought two years ago. The engine cut off, and the sudden silence was a relief.

"This is it?" Martha said, her eyes scanning the neat lawn and the freshly painted blue door with disdain. "It's... small."

Robert finally stirred. "It's a very nice house, Martha." His voice was soft, almost apologetic.

"For a first house, I suppose," she conceded, unbuckling her seatbelt with a loud, aggressive click. "Hardly big enough for a family. Of course, that doesn't seem to be a problem you two are in a hurry to solve."

I got out and opened her door, forcing a smile. "Let me get your bags, Martha." I tried to be helpful, to be the good son-in-law.

She ignored my hand and pushed herself out of the car, looking around the quiet cul-de-sac. "And the neighbors? Are they decent people? Or are they all... like you?"

"They're very nice," I said through gritted teeth, grabbing her heavy suitcase from the trunk. I could feel Robert's eyes on me, a flicker of something-pity, maybe-before he looked away and followed his wife toward the front door.

"Nice doesn't pay for a good school district," Martha called over her shoulder, already finding fault with a life that wasn't hers. "But I suppose a writer wouldn't think about things like that."

I stood there for a moment in the driveway, the weight of her suitcase pulling on my arm. It felt a lot heavier than just clothes. It felt like the weight of the next few weeks, a burden of disapproval and contempt that I had no choice but to carry into my own home.