Julian slammed his palm onto our custom walnut dining table, sending yellow ramen broth splashing over the rims of the porcelain bowls.
“I give my entire paycheck to my mother!” he shouted. “I’m a businessman. Mom is the elder. She knows how to manage household expenses and invest securely for our future! Are we really going to sit here and nickel-and-dime each other over groceries?”
His mother, Eleanor, sat nearby surrounded by luxury shopping bags from Fifth Avenue.
She lifted her chin.
“Exactly. The wealth my son generates is safe in my hands. If you, as a wife, cannot boost his career, the least you can do is stop trying to turn him against his own flesh and blood.”
I stared at my husband.
I was heavily pregnant, wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt, while the man who had once promised to treat me like a queen happily placed the entire cost of our Manhattan lifestyle on my savings.
“Shut your mouth!” Julian snapped.
