When I first met my mother-in-law, I disliked almost everything about her. She smoked too much, talked too much, spent her money foolishly, murdered the English language, and didn’t take life seriously.
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“Mother-in-law” conjures up Alan King jokes of shrewish matriarchs who cling to their sons like King Kong to the Empire State Building. But my mother-in-law defied the stereotype. Sheila fox-trotted with me in the sofa section of Crate & Barrel, to the Muzak version of I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm. She, in the paisley kerchief (having lost most of her hair by then) and I, the willing dance partner following her lead. And dance we did.
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