My mother-in-law, Betty, seizes every opportunity to belittle me during our weekly church choir practices. But one day, she pushes me too far, so I quietly plot a subtle but devastating revenge that will make Betty rethink her ruthless behavior.
Today, like every Sunday, Mike and I pulled up to St. Matthew’s, and I felt that familiar twist in my stomach.
Mike, of course, was oblivious, humming along to some old tune as we parked.
“Ready for another round of spiritual enlightenment?” Mike asked, flashing me a wide grin.
I managed a tight-lipped smile in return. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
We walked hand in hand toward the church doors, the sound of the choir already filtering out into the crisp morning air.
Betty stood near the entrance, her silver hair meticulously curled, her smile as fake as her nails. The way she greeted Mike, with that over-the-top affection, made my skin crawl.
“Michael, darling!” she cooed, pulling him into a hug that lasted a beat too long.
“I’ve been waiting for you! Choir practice just isn’t the same without you.”
“Hi, Mom,” Mike said, his voice warm.
“Emma, dear. Lovely to see you,” Betty said coolly to me.
“I hope you’ve been practicing the hymn for today. I know it can be challenging for… well, some.”
I swallowed the retort that bubbled up in my throat. What was I supposed to say?
That I’ve played the piano since I was five and could probably play that hymn in my sleep? Instead, I just nodded.
“I’ve got it covered, Betty,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
The tension between us was as thick as fog, but Mike, as usual, didn’t notice. He was already leading the way inside, chatting about his week, completely unaware of the emotional minefield I was navigating.
I followed, bracing myself for choir practice.
My heart thudded in my chest as we entered the sanctuary. Betty immediately took charge, directing everyone to their places like some kind of choir dictator.
When she wasn’t nitpicking at my playing, she was giving the side-eye to the altos for being too flat or the tenors for being too sharp.
“Emma, could you start us off?” Betty asked, her voice sugary sweet, but with that undercurrent of condescension I knew all too well.
I nodded, taking my place at the piano. My fingers hovered over the keys for a moment, just long enough to steady my breathing.
As I began to play, Betty’s voice cut through the music like a knife.
“Slow down, Emma,” she ordered. “We’re not in a race.”
I adjusted, though my jaw clenched in frustration. A few bars later, she stopped me again.
“Too slow.
You’re dragging the tempo. And watch your dynamics — they’re all over the place.”
I bit back a sharp reply, forcing myself to keep going. This wasn’t the first time she’d done this, but somehow, today felt different.
More personal.
Maybe it was the way she kept glancing over at Mike as if seeking his approval, or maybe it was the barely hidden smirk on her lips as she critiqued me. Either way, something inside me snapped.
“I’ve got it, Betty,” I said, my voice low but firm. “I’m sure we’ll be just fine.”
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