For 20 years I hated my mother-in-law. As she was dying, she gave me the key to a casket: “Inside is everything your husband has been hiding from you all these years.”
The air in the room was heavy, saturated with the smells of age, medicine, and something else—sickly sweet, like flowers wilting in a vase. For twenty years I had hated this woman. For twenty years she’d returned the feeling. Our hatred was quiet, domestic, but no less poisonous for that. It lived in the way … Read more