More Cool Stuff
We were all gathered around my in-laws’ dining table in Naperville, Illinois, picking at roast beef and maintaining the thin facade that the atmosphere wasn’t suffocatingly strained. My husband, Evan, sat motionless beside me, his jaw set in that familiar, rigid line that always appeared whenever he was in the presence of his older brother, Mark. Across from us was Mark’s wife, Sienna. She was draped in a cream-colored sweater that seemed far too sophisticated for a casual family meal. Her manicure was flawless, and her smile was perfectly curated—symmetrical, polite, and razor-sharp.
Sienna had harbored a dislike for me from the very moment Evan first introduced us. She was never overt about it, of course; being openly hostile would have ruined her image of refinement. Instead, she employed the sophisticated psychological warfare favored by experienced bullies: the pointed remark, the exclusionary private joke, and the small, public embarrassments masquerading as genuine concern.
When Evan and I purchased our first home, she had asked with a sugary tilt to her voice, “Are you absolutely certain you can manage that neighborhood?”
When I was awarded a promotion at my firm, she simply sighed and remarked, “You must be utterly drained from working so much,” as if professional ambition were a character flaw to be pitied.
And on the occasions I dared to challenge something she said, she would merely smile and observe, “You’re just so… intense.”
On this particular evening, she had been uncharacteristically quiet, a detail that, in retrospect, should have served as a definitive warning.
Halfway through the course, she abruptly froze, her fork suspended in mid-air. She began patting the area around her chair with frantic movements, as if something of immense value had suddenly vanished.
“My wallet,” she announced, her volume increasing. “Where on earth is my wallet?”
