The air in our living room was thick with the scent of my mom’s favorite flowers and the savory aroma of a well-planned birthday dinner.

It was Mom’s special day, and whatever she wanted, was exactly what she got.

“Tulips for the table, Rina,” she said, smiling at me from behind the shopping cart the day before when we went shopping for her dinner.

“Always tulips,” I grumbled at her, although I smiled.

My mother was everything to me, and so, her birthday was going to be exactly what she wanted it to be.

We went around the store, adding things to our cart as Mom ticked them off her list.

“Champagne!” she said loudly as we stood in line to pay.

“Coming right up,” I said, running down the aisle to pick up a few bottles.

“And what about the rest of the drinks?” she asked when I got back to the cart.

“Timothy said he’ll sort it out,” I said, referring to my husband who was in charge of the dessert and the drinks.

The only thing that I wasn’t a fan of for the evening was that my mother had invited my in-laws, despite my specific request.

“It’s nothing fancy, Rina,” she said. “We’re just having a birthday dinner at home. It’s normal except for the cake.”

“But you know how they are,” I whined while sipping my tea.

“They’ll be fine; they cannot say anything to you in my home,” she said.

Despite what my mom thought, Timothy’s parents had made no secret of their disdain for me since day one. There was nothing that they liked about me, except for the fact that Timothy went home to a person and not an empty house.

“It’s going to be fine,” my mother said. “And anyway, there’s still a week before the dinner. They may not even come.”

Of course, they would.

Timothy and I hosted the dinner because it would allow my mother to actually relax.

“If we have it at your place, Mom,” I told her, “you will fuss over everything. This way, you can just sit back and let Tim and I sort everything out.”

After a while, she gave in.

On the day of the dinner, Timothy and I were getting ready in our bedroom together. He stood in front of the closet, trying to decide whether to wear a tie or not.

“Do you think your parents will try anything with me?” I asked, looking for a pair of earrings to match my outfit.

“Like?” he asked, buttoning his shirt.

“You know how they are. Lots of personal digs. Your mother is probably waiting to insult me,” I said, chuckling.

Although I tried to laugh it off with my husband—there were many things that I couldn’t stand. I hated the way that Timothy’s parents spoke to me, especially his mother. She always made me seem like someone I wasn’t.

She judged me constantly—from the food I cooked, the way I dressed, to even the music I listened to.

I could barely survive the odd Sunday family dinner—which my mother-in-law insisted on having twice a month. It was awkward and forced, and I had to bite my tongue from going crazy.

As the guests began to arrive, Timothy began to play bartender—happily making up his own concoctions as he went along.

I set the table and everyone came over hungrily.

After dinner, the moment to open the gifts arrived, and my mother—ever the people pleaser, chose my mother-in-law’s gift to open first.

Sandra, my mother-in-law, with a thin smile, uttered softly but audibly.

“It would be better if you opened it alone,” Sandra said.

Mom laughed it off, but I felt uncomfortable.

I knew that Sandra would take any chance she got to embarrass me, even if it meant dragging my mother into the mix, too. This is the type of woman she was. She didn’t care about anyone but herself.

“This is going to be good then,” my mother said.

She peeled back the layers of wrapping paper. The room fell silent as the paper hit the floor, and Mom opened the box.

My husband gasped as the contents of the gift were revealed—a shockingly revealing latex outfit.

The laughter died in my mother’s throat, her face drained of color.

My heart ached and my eyes watered when I saw my mother’s pained expression.

I couldn’t contain myself. It was one thing for Sandra to bully me, her daughter-in-law, but I wouldn’t allow her to start attacking my mother.

“What is this? What sick joke is this, Sandra?” I asked. “My mother would never wear this.”

Timothy reached out to hold my hand and pull me back from the angry spiral that I was falling into.

“Why not, Rina?” Sandra asked, blinking slowly, her voice dripping with disdain. “Why shouldn’t she? After all, her daughter wears what she wants and does as she pleases.”

The room gasped in unison. The insult hung heavy in the air, palpable and venomous.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks as I began to quarrel with her, my words fueled by years of pent-up frustration.

Sandra was a fair contender to fight with. She met my anger with caustic sarcasm, lobbing insults not just at me, but at my mother too.

“Maybe if your mother raised you properly,” she said, picking up her glass of wine from the table. “Then you wouldn’t be such a mess in my son’s life. What do you even bring to the party? All I’ve seen you do is wear skimpy clothes and invite people over to the house.”

I was speechless. For once, I didn’t have anything to say. I sat on my chair and held my head in my hands, unable to bear the weight of her words.

Then, out of nowhere—my husband intervened, trying to defend us, only to be silenced by his mother.

“Shut up, Timothy,” she said bluntly. “You’re too foolish. You chose this girl.”

But amidst the chaos, my mother stood up, embodying grace under fire.

She picked up the latex outfit, folded it with deliberate care, and placed it back in the box.

She turned to my mother-in-law, her voice calm but firm.

“Thank you for your gift, Sandra,” she said. “I’ll be sure to use it at some point.”

Then, in a move that none of us could have anticipated, she took the birthday cake—the beautiful three-tiered vanilla sponge cake that she had been looking forward to all week—and threw it right into my mother-in-law’s stunned face.

The room fell shockingly silent, all eyes on the spectacle before them.

My mother-in-law, covered in frosting and berries, stood frozen, a picture of indignant outrage.

“What?” my mother asked, as Sandra wiped the frosting off her face.

“Can’t speak anymore?”

Sandra seethed—we could all feel it in the room.

“How dare you?” she spat.

“No,” Timothy chimed in. “How dare you?

Sandra turned to look at her son.

“What?” she hissed at him.

“You walk into my home and speak to my wife like she’s a stranger you’ve just met? And then you do the same thing to her mother? What is wrong with you?”

Without waiting for her to reply, my husband pointed to the door.

“I think that it’s time for you to leave,” he declared.

The command was not shouted but delivered with such authority that my mother-in-law, still wiping cake from her eyes, had no choice but to comply.

My husband was mortified. He apologized profusely, both to my mother and to me, assuring us that nothing like this would ever happen again.

Soon after, the guests left, leaving Timothy and I to clean up the mess.

He took a mop and began to clean up the remnants of frosting that had gotten smeared onto the tiles.

As we cleaned up the mess, both physical and emotional, he promised to address the issue with his mother privately once again.

Later, my mother and I sat on the couch, sipping some tea to calm ourselves down after the events of the day. She put her hand on mine.

“Never let anyone dim your light,” she said, her eyes reflecting not just the flicker of the decorative candles in the room but also a fierce protectiveness.

“Especially not in your own home,” she added.

Now, Timothy is fine when I decline the family dinner invites and ensures that I am taken care of before his mother.

I’m still not feeling great about the way dinner ended, and I’m going to start therapy to help myself recover.