2: 2
2
Early the next morning, fighting through how sick she felt, my mother got up to make my breakfast.
Mila stood there with her arms folded, like it was all her due.
"Ma'am, I can't eat anything heavy or greasy, so keep the cooking light."
"Oh, right. My Snowball and Toffee need a fresh meat meal in the mornings."
"Make their food first. They're precious, and you couldn't pay to replace them if they went hungry."
My mother stood frozen in place, her lips working.
"I've never done that. I don't know how..."
Mila's eyes went red with hurt in an instant, and she turned to Clement, who'd only just woken up.
"Clement, did I say something wrong?"
"I was only worried the dogs would go hungry, and Ma'am kept putting me off, and then Sarah glared at me. I got so scared."
Clement's expression turned cold.
"Sarah, are you done making a scene?"
"To Mila, those dogs are her family. What's the harm in having your mother whip up a little food for them?"
"Can't you be a bit more generous? Quit nitpicking every little thing."
Watching him take her side, I felt my heart sink lower and lower.
"Clement, where's your conscience?"
"My mother is here to take care of me, not to be her maid."
My mother quickly grabbed my arm and pleaded under her breath.
"Sarah, that's enough, honey. I'm fine."
"It's just making food for the dogs. I'll do it. Don't fight."
And with that, she turned and walked into the kitchen without a word.
Every move she made was careful, terrified of doing it wrong and setting off another argument.
Mila's lips curled into a smug little winner's smile.
Breakfast was ready, a full table of it.
Mila went straight for the seat at the head.
Her two dogs swaggered up onto the dining chairs and sprawled at the table's edge, tongues lolling.
Off to the side, my mother quietly ladled out porridge for everyone and passed out chopsticks.
Clement gently picked out food for Mila and peeled her egg.
"Eat more. You're too thin."
He didn't notice, not for a second, that his own wife had dropped twenty pounds because the morning sickness was so bad she couldn't keep anything down.
So it turned out that once he stopped caring, he could look right past me even with me in front of his eyes all day long.
My mother was just about to sit down beside me when Mila arched a brow.
"Ma'am, I'm a bit of a germophobe. I can't eat anything someone else's chopsticks have touched."
"Why don't you use your own separate set of dishes from now on, so you're not mixed in with the rest of us."
The line dripped with humiliation.
She was plainly calling my mother dirty, a country woman who wasn't fit to sit at the same table as them.
I couldn't stand to listen anymore.
"My mother's been slaving away all morning, and she isn't good enough to eat here?"
Mila lowered her head, hurt, her voice catching.
"I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm being too precious. I shouldn't have a germophobe thing, I shouldn't be living here upsetting you."
Clement put down his chopsticks at once, his face like iron.
"Sarah, can you stop picking fights?"
"Mila spent years abroad. She's particular about table manners, and her germophobia isn't aimed at anyone on purpose."
"Do you really have to be this aggressive?"
My mother rushed over to smooth things over, humble down to her bones.
"It's fine, it's fine, I don't know the proper manners. I'll use my own dishes. Please, don't fight."
And with that, she quietly picked up the oldest set of bowl and chopsticks and walked off to the kitchen by herself.
The huge dining room was warm and bright.
My husband sat at the main table, sharing a cozy meal with another woman and two dogs.
My mother hid in the dim kitchen, her back bent, alone, head down over her rice.
A dense, prickling ache spread through my chest.
I looked down at the porridge in my bowl, the steam blurring my sight.
If this mismatched marriage could only go on by making my mother pay the price, over and over.
Then it wasn't worth keeping.
