When people talk about tricky in-laws, they usually mean the kind who meddle in subtle ways, like folding your laundry without asking or suggesting a “better” way to season potatoes. My mother-in-law, Margot, was in an entirely different league. She didn’t meddle, she schemed.
The very first time we met, she clasped my hand, smiled with unnerving brightness, and said, “You have such a… serviceable look. Perfect for someone like Henrik, he always needed a grounding influence.” I told myself I had misheard. I hadn’t. That was just the beginning.
Over the years, Margot perfected the art of the sly insult dressed up as kindness. She “helped” me by altering recipes in my own kitchen, brought extra dishes to family dinners I had already prepared, and corrected me in front of guests as though she were teaching a class. Henrik insisted it was affection. To me, it was warfare waged with a porcelain teacup and a tight smile.
