The day I became a director should have been one of the happiest days of my life, but my husband ruined it with a mocking smile.

I walked into the kitchen smiling.

My husband, Derek Collins, sat at the table drinking coffee like it was just another ordinary Tuesday.

“I got it,” I said, barely containing my excitement. “Director. They made it official today.”

He looked up.

Just a small, mocking curl of his mouth.

“I don’t care about your job,” he said.

For a moment, I thought I had heard him wrong.

He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and continued.

“Tomorrow my mother and sister are moving in with us, and you’ll be the one taking care of them. That’s far more important than your career.”

For a second, everything felt unreal.

His mother, Gloria Collins, was sixty-four, sharp-tongued and dramatic, and had spent the last decade treating me like a temporary employee in her son’s life. His younger sister, Melanie, was thirty-four, unemployed, constantly in some self-created crisis, and had already “temporarily” stayed with two cousins, an aunt, and one ex-boyfriend before wearing out her welcome.