David sat at the far end of the island, lit blue by his phone. He was permanently unemployed, an aspiring “entrepreneur” whose ventures bled my accounts dry.

He masked his resentment by belittling my hours, my exhaustion, my career.

“You’re peeling those way too thick, Maya,” a voice snapped behind me.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t have to. Barbara, David’s mother, bumped her hip hard against mine, crowding me. She lived rent-free in the guest wing, a woman who wore her jealousy like cheap perfume, and she found her last scraps of dominance in this room.

She snatched the peeler from my hand, her nails digging into my wrist.

“You’re too slow,” she sneered, picking up a heavy cast-iron meat tenderizer from the cutting board and dropping it onto the granite with a jarring clack.