One Sunday, my motherin-law, Lilly, and I sat side by side in a pair of gold-upholstered La-Z-Boys in her living room. Out of the blue, Lilly asked, “Is there anything in my house that you would want someday?”
Lilly was nearing 80, so the question wasn’t entirely unexpected. Still, I should have suspected a trap.
Lilly, the mother of my husband, Dave, was Gramma to our teenage daughters, Katie and Emily. To strangers, she projected the image of a sweet, doting grandmother. To me, she was a relentless force to be feared and guarded against.
Simply put, Lilly was mean. She insulted her closest relatives. She took delight in making impossible demands and tripping people up. She got her way by bullying and threatening anyone who dared to go against her.
Even Dave struggled to deal with her. One of his most searing childhood memories was of Lilly shaking him by the shoulders and yelling at him so loudly, he suffered hearing loss. The minister who
