I wasn’t gullible about Ryan’s mother when I married him two years ago. Margaret never bothered to conceal her contempt for me; whenever I walked into a room, her eyes would always narrow a little, as though I had brought a foul odor with me.
Ryan would squeeze my hand beneath the dining table and whisper, “She’ll come around, Cat,” while his mother questioned him—and him alone—about his day in a direct manner.
She muttered, “The children aren’t even his,” not realizing that I was coming with empty plates. “She trapped him with her ready-made family. Classic gold-digger move.”
Plates shook in my hands as I froze in the corridor.
I was crying when I confronted Ryan that evening. “Your mother thinks I married you for money. She doesn’t even see Emma and Liam as your family.”
His heartbeat was steady against my ear as he drew me in. “You and those kids are my world, Cat. Nothing and no one will come between us. Not even my mother.”
Ryan kept his promise. He purchased a lovely house for us in a community with tree-lined streets and nice schools, far enough away from Margaret that we didn’t have to visit her unless we so desired.
Under Ryan’s tutelage, Emma and Liam flourished. Since their biological father left when Liam was still in diapers, he has never attempted to take his place. Rather, he developed his own bond with them, based on bedtime stories, Saturday morning pancakes, and pillow forts.
