***

            “Okay, so maybe she gave you a shirt that didn’t fit!” he screams. “Did you ever think that maybe she just made a mistake? Why do you think she is always out to get you, Ellie?”

            “Because she is Derek, she just is!” I scream right back.

            I have vacated the couch, saying a final goodbye to my invisible spot, and am moving things around the kitchen in a bizarre act of displacement to avoid having to look my husband in the eye. I know that I can’t win this. You can’t win against a guy’s mother, it is a battle lost before the first bitter barb has been spoken. Not that it makes it any less soul-crushing when it is actually happening to you. Maybe this is all my fault. I went into all this thinking that I deserved to be treated like his wife, like the mother of those beautiful children, like a human. An ounce of respect here, a touch of consideration there…  maybe if I would have just let go, and accepted how things actually were, and apparently how they will always be, I could make things easier on myself. Go with the flow. Embrace the Zen of this steaming pile of shit I am buried under.

            “Come on, this is so stupid, and you know it,” he sits at the kitchen table, his eyes pinched in a glare. “You are always looking for some way to pick a fight with my parents.”

            My stomach hurts. I feel so defeated. I don’t want to fight, but I just can’t let it go. I shouldn’t have to.

            “I am not always doing anything,” I lean against the sink and cross my arms defensively.

            Murphy glides in from the laundry room and lets out a low grunt as he flops down onto the linoleum. His long dark gray fur is a sharp contrast from the blindingly white floor… the floor that I scrubbed for two days before that dreadful woman arrived, hoping that it would be up to her standards, or that at least it wouldn’t catch her eye as something to nag me about. It didn’t work. I overheard her     telling Derek how a lovely hardwood could be a fine replacement for our current and dingy flooring. Murph lays there, perfectly positioned between the two of us. Not picking sides I imagine. My cat is Switzerland.

            “All this because of a goddamn shirt.” he mutters.

            “It was not just the shirt!” I feel the sting of tears pushing their way to my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. I won’t let him or his mother have them. “It is everything, just everything. She doesn’t treat me with any respect, she talks down to me, she tries to undermine me in front of the kids!”

            “Oh, bullshit, when did she do that?” he snaps back.

            I look down at the floor mat under my feet. If I focus on it hard enough, I know I can keep those tears away. Focus.

 ***

            It’s Tuesday, Day 2 of the Invasion of the Sanity Snatcher From Planet In Law.

            In the morning, Catherine waltzed downstairs as the children sat finishing their breakfast, and as always, she is impeccably dressed and surrounded by a cloud of Chanel perfume. I used to love that scent. I would eye it at the fancy counters at the department store in college, and tear out the magazine samples and hide them in the pockets of the clothes in my closet. When I first met Catherine, I took it as a sign that things were going to be perfect, as it was, and has been for years her signature spritz.

            Within a year, even a whiff made me nauseous… like a Vietnam flashback or something.

            “Do you have any dinner arrangements planned, dear?” she asked as she poured herself a mug of coffee and joined Abby and Ollie at the table.

            “Um, yeah, actually,” I yawned. “I have a pork roast thing, and potatoes and all kinds of stuff. It’s sort of my fancy dinner, I guess.”

            “Well, that sounds wonderful,” she said, with only a hint of forced enthusiasm.

            What she didn’t know was that it was my big go-to dinner when I wanted to wow my diners. It takes hours to slow roast to perfection, and it is always well worth it. The biggest of culinary hits in my house, no question.

            I was actually thrilled when she offered to pick the children up from school that day, and even more so when she planned to take Oliver to lunch and the playground until Abby got out of school, then take them both shopping for some summer clothes for a few hours before dinner. Not only would I have the entire day to myself to create my porky masterpiece, but I would have a whole afternoon alone in my very own mother in law-free house. Christmas was coming early this year!

            At about six that evening, Derek got home just a few moments before Catherine and the kids, and I was proudly pulling the roast out of the oven.

            “Mommy it smells nummy in hewe!” squealed Ollie as he dropped his shopping bags by the door.

            “Yeah honey, that looks great,” Derek said as he made his way into the kitchen to drool over my feast.

            I stood there, beaming, knowing that even she couldn’t give me grief tonight. No “Job well done!” I’m sure, but surely, nothing to harp on.

            And I was right.

            “Oh it does smell wonderful, dear!” Catherine breathily exclaimed. Again, I was beaming. “But I told you I made reservations at Avant tonight!”

            Silence.

            “I would hate to cancel them as this was the only time they were able to fit us in during my stay,” she continued, “I even bought the children nice outfits to wear!”

            More silence.

            “I do suppose we can cancel,” her face melts into exaggerated disappointment. “Oh, but I promised the children they could order escargot, and I pre-ordered the soufflés...” she trailed off slowly, finishing with her sad gaze on the children.

            I was staring desperately at Derek, who, par for the course, was avoiding it.

            And to pound the final nail in the Maternal Guilt Coffin...

            “I am sure we could reschedule for next time. The children can wear their new outfits to a party or something, since they’ll be outgrown by my next visit, I am sure.” She sighed, “Would you be kind enough to send me a picture of the children wearing the clothes?”

            “Ellie, that all looks great, but could we maybe wrap it up for tomorrow?” Derek pathetically suggested.

            “But, no. You, I mean, Catherine, you asked, this morning,” I was at a complete loss for words. “You asked me if I had dinner plans, and I told you very specifically that I did.”

            “Oh, Ellie, I am certain I never heard anything of the sort!” she insisted, her face contorted in bewilderment. “I made these reservations before I even arrived here! Perhaps you heard me wrong this morning.”

            “No, Grandma, you asked Mommy,” piped in Abigail. I made a mental note to buy her a pony for her birthday. “I heard you!”

            “Me too, Gwandma!” Ollie chimed. “I hear-d you too!”

            There was a moment of silent struggle. She looked around to Derek, who was motionless, and then to me who was at that moment clinging wildly to the sliver of hope that my children, my precious children, had handed me. Catherine was unsettled, and it was written all over her face that she had failed. It was a beautiful moment. The “Hallelujah Chorus” was ringing in my head.

            “Well!” she half coughed, “My mistake then!” More beautiful words had never passed her perfectly-lined lips.

            “That’s alright, it can happen to the best of us!” I smiled, genuinely attempting to take the high road.

            Okay, I was enjoying it a little bit.

            Until…

            “But, since I do have the reservations, and the darling clothes,” she was suddenly so cheery, “Why don’t we all get dolled up and go anyway?”

            “But Mom, Ellie made all that food.” Oh my God. He spoke!

            “Oh I know dear, but I really would hate for the kids to lose this wonderful experience all because my memory isn’t what it used to be!” She giggled. “Kids? Would you rather eat here, or would you like to go have the escargot and the chocolate soufflés, and see the waiters in tuxedos?”

            My face had gone white, my hands numb.

            “I want to eat the snai-wes!” Ollie jumped. Even the cute way he said “snails” broke my heart. Abby looked slightly more torn.

            “Mommy, is it okay if we go?” she asked, giving me a worried look. “Grandma bought me a really pretty dress, and I really want to wear it.”

            I was broken, I was tired, I was done. Even the twinge of smugness that flashed across her face couldn’t knock me any further down. My children, my sweet babies, looked to me for permission.

            “Of course you can guys,” I half choked, but tried hard to sound excited. “Absolutely! I’ll just throw all this in the fridge for later, or something, okay?”

            “Let’s all go put on our fancy clothes!” Catherine sing-songed with her momentarily ruffled feathers smoothed perfectly down, and she scooted Abby and Ollie upstairs.

            I said nothing to Derek as I got headed up to change my own clothes. I said nothing as we primped side by side in the bathroom. I said nothing during the drive to or from Avant, or through the meal. I said nothing as we lay in bed that night.

            And he said nothing to me.

 ***

            “That was a mistake she made, Elle,” Derek rubs his hands roughly through his hair. “She just forgot or something. We can’t all be right all the time like you.”

            Um. Ouch?

            I imagine that even though his mother isn’t here, even in the same state any longer, that she is still admiring her handy work somehow and getting a kick out of our little spat.

            “Are you kidding me?” I gasp. “I mean honestly, are you freaking kidding me?” My disbelief rings loudly. “I don’t know what is more ridiculous, that you think that I think I am always right, or that you are trying to convince me that your mom is always a perfect angel?”

            “I know she isn’t perfect, I know she is a little hard to take sometimes!” I swear his anger is dripping off every word. “But that is just who she is!”

            “Okay, so how come when she is mean and rude it is just who she is, but when I have a problem letting her regularly slam me, then I just have to get over it? Why can’t that just be the way I am?”

            “She’s older, she is set in her ways,” he counters. “We don’t see her that often, so why can’t you just be around her, and shut up about it?”

            “Oh my good God,” I hiss. “Did you just tell me to shut up?”

            “Yes, Eleanor, I told you to shut up.” He did not just full-name me. “For once, can you just shut the hell up about all the ways the world is wronging you?”

            “What in the frick are you even talking about?!” I shriek.

            “Oh, my mother in law is mean to me! This other kid’s mom was such a bitch! I’m too sick to move for two stupid days! And I am so busy that I can’t even remember to wash a fucking pair of jeans!”

            “What is wrong with you?!” I am screaming. “Why are you being so mean? I am sorry that my life is not as smooth as you would like it to be! I am sorry I was sick and you had to spend two days alone with your children doing what I have to do every other damn day! And gosh Derek, I am sorry that I thought that I could talk to you, my husband, about things that are going on in my life!”

            “You know what, this stuff doesn’t happen to other people.” He jabs a finger in the air towards me. “Only to you. This dramatic crap only happens to you. No one else is dealing with anything like it, so what makes you so special that it all falls into your lap?”

            “You think I make this up?” I am dumbfounded. “You think I spend my free time coming up with the most humiliating and insane stories I can think of just so I can spread them around?”

            “No, I think you are bored, and since you don’t have anything real going on in your life, you exaggerate shit for attention!” That was a nice little knife he just verbally rammed into my side. “And I think that is what you are doing to my mom! You take little things that other people would just find annoying and you make it out like she is plotting to have you whacked or something!”

            “Why aren’t you listening to me?” I explode. “Why would I want to hate her? Why would I make this stuff up? Why can’t you take your head out of her ass for just a split-second to see that this is really hurting me!”

            No, tears. You stay put.

            I want to shake him. I want to literally grab him by the shoulders and shake the stupid right out of him.

            “Well, what do you think this is doing to me? That you two can’t even get along for like, a minute!” He is coming across as angry, but when I look deep into his eyes, I see that he is disappointed in himself. He should be. At least he knows, on some level I guess.

            But where he is, winning is far more important.

            “I know!” I say strongly, but calm, “I know this is killing you, and I hate that, I hate to see you in the middle all the time.” I move and join him sitting at the table. “But honey, you are the only person who can talk to her about this. I can’t anymore, it doesn’t do any good.”

            For a moment he looks at me as though he understands, and he knows that what I am saying is right. I reach out and put my hand onto his that is lying on the table. It is clammy. I am more than hurt when he abruptly pulls his hand away.

            “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do, huh?” He gets up now and paces around the table. “Am I just supposed to cut my parents out of our lives, out of the kid’s lives, because you can’t be a little tolerant to the fact that they do things differently than you? And yeah, I meant “parents”. Because you don’t get along with either of them Ellie.” He is on a roll now. “You don’t seem to like anyone in my family at all. Do you ever think that if maybe if you have a problem with all of them, that maybe you are actually the one with the problem?” And now, going for my jugular… “You know you don’t exactly try to get along with anyone, do you? Maybe if you weren’t so goddamn judgmental of everyone else, thinking that you’re so much better, you would have some friends.” He storms over and pulls a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, slamming the door shut. “I mean Jesus, I don’t even want to be around someone that no one else can stand.”

            I sat silently for a few moments after that little speech of his. I wanted to get up and run from the room, but my legs seemed unable to function. I waited until I was certain that I could make a calm getaway, with my head held high, before I got up from my chair and walked slowly out of the kitchen and upstairs. Murphy had at that point   taken a side, so it seemed, because he followed closely after me. I hadn’t even gotten through the bedroom door before I heard the television come on downstairs. At the moment, my head was spinning, so I sought out a place where I could be certain to not be interrupted, and where I could sit and fall apart in a respectful manner.

            I want to believe he didn’t mean what he said…  at least not all of it. Those were horrible things to say. He seemed a little shocked once the words left his mouth, and he saw the painful look adorning my face. Even if he didn’t mean them, they were the most hurtful words he has ever spoken to me, and the proof is the throbbing ache in my chest.

            We used to talk without yelling. We would argue, sure, but never throw an insult like that. And we never went to bed angry. It was in the silly vows we exchanged the night before the wedding, where we made up fun little stipulations to the boring old church vows, and shared them as we sat on the hood of his car in the parking lot of the hotel. We laid there, snuggled up next to each other, taking turns alternating between silly- “You promise to look the other way if I fart at the dinner table, at least once a week.” -to the romantic- “I promise to never stop trying to count the freckles on your face while you’re reading and don’t know I am looking.”

            I am sure the freckly counting ended years ago, and I know I never let one of those farts go without. at the very least. an annoyed glare. And tonight, we will most certainly be going to bed angry.

            I know we used to be very much in love with each other, and I know tonight, any of that “in love” feeling has died in me. I know I am a tough gal in a lot of ways. I can take care of myself in most instances, but no matter how strong and brave a woman is, sometimes, we just need the white knight to gallop in on his trusty steed, sword drawn, colors flying, and rescue us, the damsels in distress.

            I blame Disney and Meg Ryan movies for this.

            Goopy love movies notwithstanding, I am painfully aware that many times over the last week, I so badly needed to be rescued… or at least assisted on the dragon kill. That’s even better. The Prince and the Princess working as a team. Take that you scaly, fire breathing bitch!

            I feel so alone. He is right, though, I don’t have many friends around here. I have casual chums, usually other parents I have met through the children’s various activities, but these are not people I would tell my inner thoughts to. These are people I exchange recipes with, and stain removal tips. In fact the only people I would consider true, attached at the soul, lifelong friends would be my best friend since college, Gwen– who lives in Manhattan, but whom I still get to see at least once a year, and talk to on the phone as often as our schedules allow. Okay, really her schedule…  she is busy, and glamorous, and fantastic, but hey… she still loves me, so I must have done something right.

            Oh. And then there’s Derek.

            Well, now that I have taken inventory I feel much better. My only real friends are a woman who lives hundreds of miles away, and a man who informs me tonight that even he isn’t exactly enjoying my company. Sure, that makes me feel fabulous! Why wouldn’t it? That the only people you love either don’t want to be anywhere near you and think that you are routinely full of shit, or that they live so far away that maybe the only reason they still love you is because they only have to stomach you in small doses! Well, that is just FAN-fucking-rip-your-heart-right-out-of-your-chest-TASTIC!

            Suddenly, the last few weeks come rushing up to me in a horrid flash. All my humiliations and pain slams into me and I am finding it hard to breathe. A person can take only so much, and I have reached my limit. I can’t do it anymore, I can’t play this game and try to follow the rules, knowing that the rest of the world is cheating. It is simply too much for me.

            I know I can’t control it anymore. I feel the sting of tears once again, and my eyes are rapidly welling up.

            I don’t want him to know how badly he has wounded me. I don’t want the children to wake up and see their Mommy smack dab in the middle of an emotional meltdown.

            I quickly jump into my chosen hiding spot, secure in the one room in the house with a working lock on the door, and a place where I know I can let go without being heard or disturbed.

            So, here I sit. Curled up in the bathtub, with my loyal companion Murphy nestled and purring knowingly in my lap. The first tear escapes and lands silently in his soft fur.

            And I cry.