We’d been living increasingly separate lives, him at his mother’s beck and call, me building an empire he barely noticed. He knew I’d resigned and assumed I’d be taking a few weeks off before finding another little job, as his mother would say.
The seller, a tech executive relocating to Singapore, had installed a state-of-the-art security system with biometric locks and cameras covering every entrance.
“The privacy here is absolute,” he assured me. “That’s why I bought it and why I’m sure you’ll love it.”
As I stood on the deck that first evening, watching the sun melt into the ocean, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in 15 years.
Peace.
Tomorrow, the moving trucks would arrive with my carefully selected belongings. I had no idea Eleanor was already planning her invasion.
The humiliation started at our wedding reception.
Eleanor stood up during toasts and announced, “Welcome to the Drexler family. Though I hope you understand that real Drexler women don’t need to work. We have estates, not offices.”
For 15 years, that set the tone.
At every family gathering, I was the outsider who couldn’t just be satisfied with Marcus’ success. Never mind that Marcus’ commercial real estate business barely broke even most years, while my salary and bonuses paid our mortgage.
Christmas 2019 was particularly brutal.
Eleanor hosted 40 guests and assigned me to kitchen duty.
“Since you’re so good at taking orders at work.”
While her friends sipped champagne in the parlor, I plated appetizers and refilled drinks. Marcus found me crying in the pantry and said, “Just humor her, Jo. It’s easier.”
The pattern never changed.
Eleanor would introduce me as Marcus’s wife who insists on working, while her country club friends exchanged knowing looks.
