From the very beginning, Veronica made it clear—without ever saying the words—that she didn’t approve of me. She was polite, even sweet, whenever Marcus was around. But the moment his back was turned, the mask slipped.
“Elena, dear,” she’d say in that sing-song voice of hers, “Marcus grew up on good, hearty meals. You might want to practice a bit more in the kitchen. He deserves more than takeout and casseroles.”
Her smile never reached her eyes.
I’d tell Marcus about these digs, but he always brushes them off.
“Babe, Mom’s just old-fashioned,” he’d laugh. “She doesn’t mean anything by it. She loves you.”
But I knew better.
