The air crackled with tension, thick as the gravy clinging to my holiday sweater. My husband, Michael, sat across the table, his face a battleground of simmering disappointment and misplaced loyalty. At the head, his mother, Aunt Beatrice, reigned supreme, a porcelain queen wielding a sceptre of passive-aggression. The "incident, " as it would later be euphemistically referred to, had unfolded with the grace of a drunken hippo entering a china shop. I, the unsuspecting fawn in this porcelain jungle, had dared to suggest a vegetarian option for Christmas dinner. Aunt Beatrice, a woman whose culinary repertoire resembled a museum of endangered meats, erupted like a volcano fed foie gras. "Vegetarian? At Christmas? In this house? " Her voice, normally a genteel purr, now resembled nails scraping down a chalkboard. "Since when did we start catering to the whims of... lettuce enthusiasts? " The table froze. My cheeks burned. Michael, ...
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