For as long as I’ve known my in-laws, my father-in-law has had a sharp tongue disguised as humor. Every family dinner followed a familiar, almost scripted pattern: he’d make some snide comment about my mother-in-law, everyone would laugh uncomfortably, and she’d smile that brittle, practiced smile that said, I’m used to this.
Oh, that’s just how he is,” she’d say afterward, usually when we were clearing dishes or wrapping leftovers. I’d help her in the kitchen, the sound of the faucet filling the silence between us. “It’s fine,” she’d tell me quietly, her voice soft and weary. “He doesn’t mean it.”
