The second year of our union was a masterclass in psychological erosion. The polite veneer dissolved. Mason ceased using me as an intermediary; he began bypassing my phone entirely, calling Daniel directly to orchestrate lavish family dinners to which my invitation was mysteriously lost in the mail. Gloria’s tactics evolved into silent warfare. My inbox became a dumping ground for unsolicited medical journals detailing “Fertility-Enhancing Diets” and “Lifestyle Corrections for the Barren Woman”—always forwarded without a single word of text in the body.
The climax of their cruelty occurred during a summer barbecue. Mason, standing over a smoking grill with six extended relatives within earshot, casually remarked that he prayed Daniel would “finalize his decisions before the window of opportunity completely shut.”
I froze, the plastic cup in my hand crinkling under my grip. “What exactly do you mean by that, Mason?”
He turned slowly, leveling me with a gaze dripping with toxic pity. “I mean regarding your future, Rachel. As a cohesive family unit.”
Daniel flinched. “Dad, come on,” he muttered. It was the absolute maximum amount of defense he had ever mustered on my behalf.
