My first birthday as a married woman was supposed to be simple—intimate, joyful, mine. A few close friends. Some food. Maybe a cake with too many candles. Nothing dramatic.
Instead, I found myself mid-eyeliner wing, hair half-curled, and robe cinched like I was about to go twelve rounds with my reflection.
I was whispering affirmations to myself in the mirror—“You’ve got this, Judie. You’re the birthday girl. You are in control.”—when the door burst open without warning.
In walked Richard, my father-in-law, with all the subtlety of a freight train and none of the grace.
