“You’ll make breakfast,” he said. “My mother’s coming by. Don’t embarrass me.” Motherhoodadvice books
I tasted blood and smiled behind my hand.
“Of course,” I whispered.
That satisfied him. He believed he had won.
By seven that morning, the house smelled of butter, brown sugar, pepper gravy, buttermilk biscuits, fried chicken, candied yams, collard greens, peach preserves, and strong coffee. I arranged the antique silver cutlery his mother adored more than scripture. I polished the crystal glasses. I placed magnolias in the middle of the table.
Caleb came downstairs freshly shaved, arrogant, and hungry.
His mother, Evelyn, arrived ten minutes later wearing pearls, perfume, and judgment.
She saw my swollen lip and said, “A wife should know when to stop talking.”
Caleb laughed under his breath.
I poured the coffee with steady hands.
