Linda, Jason’s mother, swept in wearing a fur coat that reeked of mothballs and Chanel No. 5. She handed it to a server and locked her critical eyes onto my cast, then marched over to where I stood by the fireplace.

No hello. She just gestured at my arm with her champagne flute.

“What kind of theatrics is this, Elena?” she scoffed, loud enough for nearby guests to hear.

“I slipped on the ice last night,” I said evenly. “A severe radius fracture.”

Linda rolled her eyes and took a haughty sip. “Please. When I fractured my wrist in the eighties, I still put a four-course Thanksgiving on the table.

Broken arm or not, you should be in that kitchen managing the staff, not lounging out here. If women don’t put in the effort to keep their men happy, men start looking elsewhere.”