he first time I heard my daughter’s future in-laws insult her, they were eating the dinner she had spent five hours preparing for them. They smiled while they did it.
That was the part that stayed with me. Not the words. Not at first. The smiles. Polite, cultivated smiles that assumed nobody at the table could hear what was hidden underneath them.
They thought they were safe because they had switched to French.
They were wrong.
