VICTORIA

The dining room was as grand as ever, yet suffocating under the weight of unspoken expectations. Rita Blackwood, my mother-in-law, sat at the head of the table, her demeanor regal, her sharp gaze cutting through the room like a finely honed blade. Across from her, I felt the familiar tension coil in my stomach, the kind that only arose when I knew a confrontation was brewing.

“So, Victoria,” she began, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin before placing it down with exaggerated precision. “I’ve been hearing about your art again.”

Her tone wasn’t accusatory, not outright. But there was a distinct note of disapproval woven through her words,...