"That is a fine porcelain plate my son brought back from his trip. I don't even let myself use it, and you went and scooped your slop onto it."
"A perfectly good piece of art, destroyed because of you!"
Slop.
That word drove into my father's chest like a nail.
That pot of braised pork was something he'd made after learning how bad my morning sickness was, how it was the one thing I could keep down.
He'd gotten up at five in the morning, gone to the market at dawn, and hand-picked the best cut of pork shoulder he could find.
Then he'd gone home and braised it for two hours, sealed it in an insulated bag, and cradled it against his chest.
Then he'd sat on a train for five hours to bring it to me.
To him, that was the highest form of love a father could give his daughter.
And now, in his in-law's mouth, it was "slop."
The color drained from his face, inch by inch.
And the fire in my chest climbed, inch by inch.
But I didn't lash out. I just glanced at my husband, Edgar James, then went silently to get the first-aid kit.
Three months ago, Edgar had promised me, to my face,
that if I agreed to let his mother move in with us,
he would take my side unconditionally whenever she and I clashed.