Every Sunday, my husband Mike and I go to St. Matthew’s for choir practice—but it’s never just about church. For me, it’s about bracing myself for my mother-in-law, Betty.
She greets Mike like he’s the golden boy—clinging to him, showering him with exaggerated affection—while ignoring me or slipping in little barbs. During practice, she makes “innocent” comments about my voice being off-key or my dress being “a little plain for Sunday.” Each jab stings, but Mike never seems to notice.
For weeks, I swallowed the humiliation. But one Sunday, Betty went too far, loudly telling the other choir ladies that I “couldn’t hold a note to save my life.” My cheeks burned, but instead of snapping back, I quietly asked the choir director if I could lead the next solo—a piece I had secretly practiced for days.
When the moment came, I sang with every ounce of strength and grace I had. My voice carried through the church, filling the pews with a confidence even I hadn’t felt before. The congregation applauded, the choir cheered, and for once, Betty was left speechless.
That silence was my victory. She never mocked my singing again. From then on, her fake smiles came with a hint of caution, because she had learned the lesson—underestimate me, and I’ll rise higher than she ever expected.
