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My husband always treated his mother like a queen and made sure I felt like the runner-up. The day he told her she deserved the front seat of our car more than I did, my heart broke. But I didn’t cry.
I devised a plan. When I finally struck, it was a lesson they’d never forget.
There were small things, of course.
Little signs I told myself didn’t matter.
He called his mom, Stephanie, every single day. Sometimes twice. If she had an opinion about something, like what color shirt he should buy, which route he should take to work, or whether he should get a haircut, he listened like she was delivering divine wisdom.
But I brushed it off as sweet.
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