A bad week. A very bad week.

            I am sitting here on the couch reflecting on the last five days of my life. Derek is upstairs putting the children to bed, and I am here. On the couch. In a catatonic state.

            Oh, such a bad week.

            I am focused on a spot that doesn’t exist, and trying so hard to not re-live the horror. I am exhausted, and I have not taken an adequate breath in a week. It is like I have been wearing an ever-tightening corset, one whose strings are being constantly pulled to the point of strangulation by my Mother in Law. I want to lie down on this couch and relax, or make myself a large drink, or at the very least take off my shoes, but sadly I lack the strength to do any of those. Instead I will sit here, staring at the spot that doesn’t exist.

            I hear Derek stepping softly down the stairs. I can feel his eyes on me, burning into the back of my head, as he walks slowly, cautiously, around me. He is correct to be on guard. While I barely lack the physical or emotional strength to properly blink, I feel rather certain that I could dig up just enough power to strangle him. Why would I want to do such a thing to the man I love? Well, because he is the reason that horrible woman is in my life, and until about an hour ago, was in my house.

            “Ellie?” He inquires quietly.

            I cannot respond. I am in deep concentration on my invisible spot.

            “Can I get you anything?” He smiles carefully, “Anything at all?”

            No. The spot is fulfilling my needs at the moment, thank you.

            “Ellie?” He waves his hand a foot or so in front of my face. “Are you alright?”

            My concentration broken. I leave my invisible focal point behind, and look at my husband. I consider his question for a moment. Am I alright? Am I? After the week I just had, I consider “alright” to be a relative term. Am I better off than starving people in Africa? Yes. Yes, I am. Am I doing well compared to someone in a full body cast? I believe that to be true. Now, am I alright in comparison to who and how I was before, even the second before that woman walked through my door on Monday? No. The answer would be no.

            “It wasn’t really that bad, was it?” He sits in front of me on the ottoman. “I mean, I know some things weren’t exactly, um, what you would call, uh, positive, but there were some good points, right?” He gives my knee a reassuring pat, “I mean, think of the nice things she brought for Oliver and Abby! Those were nice. And um– the nice gift she bought for you!”

            My jaw drops.

            “Well, it’s not really her fault that it didn’t fit!” He counters to my expression. “It’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?”

            I am beyond surprise now and have moved to rage, my eyes clearly conveying that change. He quickly stands up and moves away from me over to the chair a few feet away. As he sits, he places a throw pillow in his lap. He is wise to protect himself.

            “No, Derek.” I push through clenched teeth, “No, it is not the thought that counts.”

 ***

            The original plan was that first thing on Monday morning, I was to drop the children off at school, then head to the airport to pick up Derek’s mother. So, this is what I did. I drove to the airport, a good forty-five minutes away, and prayed that I made it back to town in time to pick Ollie up from school. Derek was on standby in case we ran late, and he would leave work and pick our son up instead. I hit the terminal, right in the nick of time, only to find that her flight had been delayed. Great. I called Derek with the updates and he said he would just plan to pick Oliver up so there would be no rush, and he would meet us at the house. Perfectly normal occurrences, right? So, I waited.

            An hour after its scheduled time, the flight arrived. I stood at the gate watching for the familiar, yet terrifying face of my in-law, and tried to keep a calm air about myself. People filtered out of the tunnel, and each one that passed was very much not her. As the last people wandered out, followed by the flight crew, I panicked, thinking that I had somehow missed her. I clawed through my purse looking for the sheet of paper that had her flight information written on it, and double checked to make sure I had read it correctly. Everything matched up, and I started frantically looking around. Oh man, she would be so irritated if I had missed her, and I would never hear the end of it.. like ever, throughout the history of time.

            Just as I was about to have her paged, my cell rang.

            “Honey, where are you?!” Was my husband’s irritated greeting.

            “What do you mean!?” I screamed into the phone, “I am here waiting for your mom! The plane just let out and I can’t find her! I am freaking out here, I don’t know where she could have gone!”

            “What are you talking about Ellie? Mom is here with us!”

            My heart just fell out my butt.

            “What?!” I hissed into the phone.

            “She switched airlines and got here like half an hour ago, “ he explained. “She said she tried to call you a bunch of times in the airport, but when she couldn’t get a hold of you she just gave up and took a cab!”

            “She never tried to call me! I had my phone the whole time!! I put it on vibrate in my pocket to make absolute sure I didn’t miss any calls!” I am hyperventilating and suddenly aware that dozens of waiting passengers are staring at me.

            “Well, she says she tried, so whatever, but you can come back because she is here.” With that, he hung up.

            Oh, she is good. Evil, but good.

            I speed home to find that not only had she pulled a fast one over on me, but she had also managed to talk her son into picking Abby up from school early to mark her arrival.

             “What is Abigail doing home?” I ask breathlessly, feeling as though I had run the entire distance from the airport.

            “Mom thought that it would be nice to have her here so she could see her Grandma!” Was Derek’s chipper response.

            “Yes, but she had school, it was only a few hours more,” I am whispering as I peel off my jacket, trying to remain unseen by her Royal Scariness.

            “Well, she doesn’t get to spend much time with them and wanted to get in every minute.”

            “She is here for five freaking days, she couldn’t wait a couple stupid hours for her to get out of school?” I am pissed here. “She could have just spent time with Oliver. You should have told her that school was more important!”

            “More important than her Grandmother?” He shakes his head and walks away, as I was obviously a hideous person for even suggesting such a thing.

            Things are not starting well.

            I walked in to the living room where my children were bouncing around surrounded by gift bags and wrapping paper. In the middle of all this madness, she sat.

            “Mommy, look what Gramma brought us!!” My kids squeal and hold up fistfuls of toys and fancy clothes.

            That’s right, lady. Buy their love.

            “Hey, those are great guys, “I smile as genuinely as humanly possible. “Did you tell her thank you?”

            “Oh, they don’t have to say anything at all, it was my pleasure!” Her voice shoots through my body and causes every muscle to turn to stone.

            Catherine Rose Donahue stood up from the couch and turned to face me. She was what you might call regal. Tall, thin, perfectly put together. Think a dark-haired, sixty year old, even wealthier version of my other arch nemesis... she is always dressed as if she is about to be interviewed by “Perfection” magazine or something. She is so very intimidating, and she knows it. I like to think that part of that has to do with the fact that she is almost as tall as Derek, who is a good eight inches over me. Add the way she is always on point, her voice so perfectly controlled, her true emotions never showing through… and she just plain makes me quiver in my boots.

            “Hello, Catherine.” I say with an audible shake in my voice. “It’s nice to see you.”

            I lied.

            “Well, it’s lucky you see me at all, it took so much to get here!” She laughs lightly, and looks me square in the eye. “It’s alright though, I am sure you didn’t intend for your cell phone to die.”

            “My, um,” I look around at Derek who quickly turns and hops on the floor with the kids. Coward. “My cell phone didn’t die.”

            “Oh. Well then.” She looks as if I have insulted her. “I just assumed that was the only reason you might have had to not have answered when I called.”

            “But I didn’t get any calls.” I am defensive. This is ridiculous, and she knows it. “I even checked and it didn’t say I had any missed calls. Why didn’t you leave a voicemail?”

            My husband looks up at his mother, and then to me, and can sense the storm a-brewin’. I return her now icy glare blink for blink, and await her response.

            “But hey!” Derek jumps up and runs in front of me, putting his hand on my arm. “The important thing is that we are all here now!”

            “Of course sweetheart!” She chuckles, “Next time, I’m sure she’ll be more prepared!” I am about to take off my rings and earrings, because this is beatdown -worthy, but I am interrupted.

            “Look, Mom brought you something too!” he exclaims nervously. “Abby, why don’t you give Mommy her bag.”

            My precious little daughter, now decked out in fairy wings and a brand new bejeweled tiara complements of Catherine, bounded towards me with a pink gift bag stuffed with perfectly positioned lavender tissue paper.

            “Just a little something that made me think of you,” she explained. “I had to guess your size. Why don’t you try it on?” I swear I saw the faintest of smiles on her lips.

            “How sweet that you thought of me,” I half smile, half sigh. “But I’ll just open it and try it on later if that is alright with you.”

            “Aw, kids that’s no fun is it?” She cheerily turns to my babies. “We want to see mommy’s new clothes don’t we!”

            “Yeah!” was screamed in surround sound by my jumping tots. I bet she gave them sugar too....

            “Sure,” I inhale deeply. “Why not?”

            I head into the downstairs bathroom, cursing under my breath with each step, and shut the door behind me. I release a bit of tension by removing my shoes for silence and jump up and down, punching my clenched fists into the air around me, all the while emitting a silent but epic scream.

            Once I have blown off a bit of steam and possibly thrown out my shoulder, I put the lid down and sat on the toilet to open my gift. I yank out the tissue paper, and find that tearing it and crumpling it into a wrinkly mess is surprisingly satisfying.

            I reach in and pull out an article of clothing. Upon further inspection, it is a white sleeveless top, as boring as can be, that buttons up the front, complete with an insanely pressed collar. It looks expensive, but it couldn’t be less my style. It also appears to be in a size that is better suited to fit Abigail than myself. Oh, darn, guess that means I can’t try it on, ha!

            I pop my head out the door and announce the size discrepancy.

            “Well, why don’t you try it on, and let us see how it looks,” Catherine calls. “Maybe we will be more objective.”

            More objective than what? What is that supposed to mean?

            I shut the door again and look at the shirt. No chance of this fitting me. None.

            Nevertheless, to avoid any further tension to our evening, I peel off my t-shirt and unbutton the new one. As I try to pull it around my back, I start emitting small grunts as I wrestle to get it up my arms. After much work, I at least get it far enough that it looks like a bizarre vest. It is cutting into my skin under my arms, and rapidly stopping any blood flow.

            “No really, it doesn’t fit!” I shout to anyone who will listen.

            Within seconds, the door jerks open, and I am staring at Derek’s floating head.

            “What are you doing?” he hisses at me.

            “It doesn’t fit, why do I have to keep trying it on?” I hiss right back.

            “Ellie, come on, she bought you a nice gift and for you not to try it on for her makes you seem really ungrateful.”

            “Oh my God, did she just say that to you?!” I violently whisper.

            “Look, we have four more days, do you think you could try and get along with her?!” he snaps, and shuts the door before I can respond….or punch him in the eye.

            So, I can either pull on this Barbie Doll- sized shirt and go out there in front of that dreadful woman, or I can refuse and come out and have my children think that I am ungrateful, as apparently that is what is being discussed as I sit in here and wrestle into a cotton prison. Decisions, decisions.

            I hang my head, and accept that no matter what, she is my children’s Grandmother, and they do love her. Why, I have no idea, but that is neither here nor there at this point. In the interest of not forcing my children into a week-long back and forth, I am going to suck it up and suck it in to get this stupid shirt on. And then, once that old bat is gone, I am going to burn the blasted thing in the backyard and make s’mores.

            With considerable effort, I huff and puff and try to close the shirt. Normally, I look at my chest and wish to have a bit more to work with. Now, I am being forced to smoosh the poor ladies down. I am having an increasingly difficult time keeping it closed enough to be able to even get the buttons through the holes, and after much trial and error, I find that if I hold the sides together with one hand and brace the top of the shirt by pinning it to my chest with my chin, I can use my one free hand to push the buttons through.

            After I jam the last button into place, I look at myself in the mirror. I look like 132 pounds of Jello crammed into the wrapper that goes around a roll of pennies.

            “Mommy, we want to see the pwesent!” Ollie calls, no doubt fed the line by Satan herself.

            I want to take a deep breath, but I fear the thread holding the buttons in place couldn’t bear any further strain. So instead, I hang my head in shame before turning the knob and step out.

            “See, it’s just too small,” I say informatively, and turn to go back to the bathroom to change.

            “Well that doesn’t make any sense!” Catherine says, feigning confusion. “Come into the light in here so I can get a better look.”

            I look to Derek for help, but his face is a fine representation of shock. Oh, he will pay for this. And so will she, if I have anything to say about it.

            I hold my chin up, and step forward a few feet into the “good” light.

            “Well, Derek had told me you had lost some weight when you were sick, so I guessed the size off of that!” She walks in front of me and looks me up and down. “Isn’t it a shame how that weight comes back so quickly?”

            I clench my jaw. I wonder how much it would actually scar my kids for me to kill their grandmother in front of them. I mean, I’m sure I could explain it like, “Hey! She was old! She lived a good life! Now, who wants ice cream!?!”

            “Well. I suppose I can take it back,” she sighs. “Next time I just won’t even risk it. I never realized how hard you are to fit!”

            “Okay, that is enou-” I start, preparing fully to end that sentence in a full yell.

            “Mommy, that shirt doesn’t look right on you,” Abby says, her face twisted in a curious scrunch. “Your tummy is showing!”

            I look down, and sure enough, there is my stomach squishing out underneath this hateful garment that has slid up to my waist, perhaps hoping that maybe there it could find some relief from the perma-stretch I was inflicting upon it.

            I am horrified as I feel every eye in the room focus in on my belly, in all its jiggly, post-child bearing glory. I’d suck it all in, but my ribs are unable to expand.

            “You know dear,” she says in a slightly hushed, but loud enough tone for everyone to hear, “There are surgeries to correct that sort of...” She pauses here to make a face of mild disgust, and for humiliating emphasis I’m sure, “…Situation,” she finishes.

            Oh no, she did not just say that out loud.

            “And you know, when they do it, maybe you can see if they can remove that unsightly stretch mark.” She smiles, and finishes with a giddy flourish, “Wouldn’t bathing suit shopping be so much more fun?!”

            “You know what? I have taken about enough of this crap,” I scowl. I am beyond what any look from Derek can contain, and believe me, once she goes to sleep in her dirt-layered coffin tonight, and I secure garlic around the children’s necks, that spineless Mommy’s Boy is going to get his.

            “I have done nothing,” I take a deep breath here as the tirade that is about to erupt from me needs air support for sure.

            But as I inhale, sharply, I feel the wretched shirt strain, and remember that I am literally holding things together here by a thread. As fantastic as this realization is, it does me no good, as things are too far in motion to be stopped.

            With an unnaturally loud pop, pop, pop, the first three buttons on my shirt, unable to withstand the considerable stress they were under, shot off the shirt and flew in varying directions across the room, with one hitting the floor lamp, setting off an unexpected ringing sound.

            “Oh my God,” whispers Derek, his eyes bugging right out their sockets.

            “Mommy, that was neat!” Abby squealed.

            “Yeah, do it again, Mommy!” added Oliver.

            I don’t know what to say or where to look, and for reasons that can only be explained as me wanting to punish myself, I chose to land my darting eyes onto Catherine… who is smiling. A full-on Cheshire cat smirk.

            “Well then!” She turns abruptly and faces Derek and the kids. “What’s say we all get ready, and let Grandma take you all out for dinner?” she announces.

            “Yay!” The kids holler and run off to put on their shoes and the like, followed closely by Catherine.

            “Oh, and Ellie?” She turns back to me and my face is still frozen in disbelief. “I can’t return that now that you’ve broken off the buttons, but why don’t you hang on to it? Maybe you’ll fit into it one day!”

            In a flash she is off, followed closely by her son, and fawning over the children, helping them on with their jackets, leaving me to stare, traumatized, at nothing in particular.

            “We’ll meet you out in the car I suppose then, Ellie,” she calls as she wrangles my herd out the front door, “So you can have some time to get decent.”

            Derek is the last out, and I am still speechless. He turns around to shut the door behind him, and mouths “I am so sorry...” before his mother calls for him, and he disappears.

            I look around the room, jaw still dropped, and shake my head.

            With freshly unrestricted lungs I take a long breath, sucking in as much air as my humiliated lungs can hold, and right in the middle of my perfectly silent living room, I scream. I scream loud. I scream clear. I scream until my lungs collapse.

            I don’t want to give her any more reason other than the obvious bounty before her to pick on me tonight, and so I quickly peel off the white hell that is this shirt, rush to the bathroom to grab the t-shirt I left in there, and scurry to pull it on.

            I sit down on the toilet seat to pull my shoes on, and glare at the strewn heap of the mocking shirt, that I still fully intend to barbecue, when I see it. Sticking out from underneath the freakishly stiff collar is the tag. And there, on that small little slip of fabric are the letters ‘XS’.

            She got me an extra small. I am a comfortable medium, and a large in some brands, so I would never be mistaken for an XS, by any means. She knew this would never fit me.

            The bitch set me up.

            And that, my friends, that was only the first day.