Compliments that somehow still felt like expectations.
Gladys swept into the kitchen just as I pulled the vegetables from the oven. She looked over the counter with folded arms.
“You used fresh rosemary?”
“I did.”
“I usually use thyme.”
I forced a smile.
“I wanted to try something different.”
“Hmm.”
That one little sound carried enough judgment to curdle milk.
She lifted the foil covering the roast without asking.
“I hope you didn’t overcook it.”
Before I could answer, she walked away.
I just stared, too tired to fire back.
Before everyone sat down to eat, Gladys asked if I’d remembered to start the livestream for the relatives who couldn’t make it.
“I already did,” I said.
She beamed.
“Perfect. They’ll love feeling included.”
I checked that the livestream was running and left my phone on the bookshelf facing the living room.
