My 11-year-old yanked me behind a pillar at the mall. “Don’t move,” she whispered. I looked out and FROZE. My mother-in-law, who supposedly uses a walker and has dementia, was strutting in high heels with my husband. When my daughter showed me the bruise from her “frail” grandma, I realized their cruel game. I went home, stayed silent, and took action. The next morning, they went pale ….
Chapter 1: The House of Eggshells
The smell of the house was the first thing that hit you. It wasn’t the smell of a home; it was the smell of a waiting room. Disinfectant, stale oatmeal, and the cloying, dusty scent of lavender air freshener trying to mask something sour.
Claire stood in the kitchen at 5:30 AM, staring at the coffee maker as if it were a holy relic. Her back ached—a dull, throbbing knot at the base of her spine from lifting Doris in and out of the bath last night. Her hands were dry and cracked from constant washing.
At thirty-four, Claire felt fifty.
“Claire!” The voice rasped from the living room, a sound like dry leaves scraping concrete.
