“Sunday dinner is at 6. I suggest you both be on time.”
I walked inside, leaving her fuming on the porch.
The real estate agent was coming at noon while they were out, and I had a house to stage.
Sunday arrived with a heavy, stifling atmosphere.
Sarah’s parents, Richard and Linda, pulled into the driveway at exactly 5:45 p.m.
From the moment they walked in, Sarah took over. She greeted them at the door, took their coats, and ushered them into the dining room like she owned the place.
I stayed in the kitchen quietly plating the roast chicken and roasted vegetables I had prepared.
“Teresa, the house looks lived in,” Linda commented smoothly as she took her seat.
She was a woman who spoke entirely in backhanded compliments.
“It’s a home, Linda. People live here,” I replied, setting the serving platter in the center of the table.
