Every Sunday her husband took her to his parents house. So clean and tidy with
everything in place the abode was lifeless, like a scene in a furniture store
showroom. She sat in her chair with her knees together and ankles crossed,
listening to her husband’s family struggle to find inane topics to create
conversation. His mother, a chronic passive-aggressive, would find ways to
secretly state an opinion (typically discouraged, opinions were), which was
usually uneducated and distasteful.
Every Sunday for many years her husband took her to his parents house and expected her to act like a lady out of respect of his mother’s watchful eye which was quick to find faults to criticize.
Every Sunday she held her tongue, and learned to be demurely subversive.
Demurely Subversive at Auntie B’s Wax
Auntie B's Wax 