“I’m completely sure,” I replied, sipping my coffee. “And please call me Beatatrice.”
I explained the situation.
Everything.
I didn’t lie or omit details.
Teresa needed to know what she was getting into.
When I finished, she was silent for a long moment.
“So,” she said finally, “you want my family and me to be your living lesson for your son and daughter-in-law.”
“I want,” I corrected, “you to have a decent home. And yes, for my relatives to learn some empathy along the way.”
Teresa smiled.
“Sounds fair. When can we move in?”
A week later, on April 1st, the moving truck arrived at 847 Jurist Circuit.
I went to supervise.
It was my right as a co-owner.
Emily opened the door.
When she saw me, her face went through ten different emotions, but she forced a smile.
“Mother-in-law, come in.”
