My daughter is 11. My son is eight.
They leave cups in odd places, forget to put socks in the hamper, and act like hearing « brush your teeth » is the worst oppression known to mankind. But they are not my biggest problem.
My biggest problem has always been my mother-in-law, Diane.
Diane has this talent for entering my house like she is doing me a favor and leaving it like a petty little storm passed through just to prove a point.
She never called first.
She never texted.
She just showed up with her giant purse, her hard perfume, and that stiff smile that never reached her eyes.
« Oh, relax, » she would say if I looked surprised. « I’m family. »
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