Ryan called her every evening. He consulted her before making major purchases. If he planned a weekend away, he worried about whether she might feel lonely.
At first, I assumed their closeness was simply the result of a difficult childhood.
Then Patricia began treating me like a thief.
The first incident happened at her birthday dinner.
I wore a navy-blue dress I’d bought on sale and arrived with a bouquet of flowers.
Patricia examined the flowers, thanked me without enthusiasm, and glanced at my dress.
“That’s an interesting choice,” she said.
I smiled politely.
“Thank you.”
“Ryan has always liked helping people. I hope you understand that marriage involves more than receiving help.”
The table went quiet.
Ryan immediately intervened.
“Mom, what is that supposed to mean?”
Patricia waved her hand.
“Nothing, darling. I’m simply making conversation.”
Later that evening, I cried in the bathroom.
Ryan found me sitting on the floor, wiping mascara from my cheeks.
