That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Mrs. Anderson gave me a sharp look, then waved her hand dismissively. “Well, maybe Tommy just needs to toughen up a little. He’ll be fine.”
But before I even reached the nursery door, I heard the deep, angry voice of Mr. Anderson booming from downstairs.
“How dare she talk to us like that!” he roared, his words laced with insults I’d rather not repeat. I stopped on the stairs, heart pounding, realizing the situation had spiraled completely out of control.
The next morning, I went into the kitchen, hoping for a fresh start—maybe even an apology. Mrs. Anderson was there, humming to herself as she made coffee, as though the previous night’s explosion had never happened.
“Hey, Mom,” I began, trying to sound calm. “About what Dad said last night…”
She didn’t let me finish. With a flick of her wrist, she waved me off. “Honey, my husband has a point. It’s his house, after all. Boundaries, you know.”
“Boundaries?” I repeated, barely believing my ears. “You mean the kind of boundary that separates a mother trying to give her newborn a peaceful home from two adults who can’t stop yelling over a TV remote?”
She looked me dead in the eye, utterly unbothered, and took a slow sip of her coffee. “Look, Mila,” she said evenly, “living in a joint family means respecting how we do things. You can’t just move in here and start giving orders. You’re still new to this family.”
