That morning, my husband slammed the bedroom door so hard that our wedding photo, hanging above the dresser, rattled against the wall. I’d barely been awake for half a minute.
“Get up,” he snapped, yanking the blanket off me. “Do you think you can disrespect my mother and still sleep peacefully?”
I sat bolt upright, my heart racing. The pale winter light filtered through the blinds, but his face burned with fury, the kind of fury he displayed when he’d already decided I was wrong and all that was left was to push me until I gave in.
“I’m not giving your mother any more money,” I said, my voice still thick with sleep. “I told you last night. Nothing’s changed.”
He let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Unbelievable. She just needed a temporary loan.”
