The kitchen, usually a place of warmth and routine, felt foreign and hostile.
My daughter-in-law stood by the sink, her back to me, nursing her scalded arm under cold water.
Her shoulders were tense, and I could almost feel the anger radiating off her.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” I murmured, unsure if she would even hear me.
Her silence was answer enough.
She turned slightly, her eyes flickering with a mix of pain and resentment.
“You always have to push, don’t you?”
Her voice was low, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of long-held grievances.
I opened my mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come.
What was there to say?
