My MIL’s Devaluation Game: A Symphony of Retribution

My MIL, Betty, treats me as a nonentity in stark contrast to my husband’s predecessor, who lavished her with opulent excursions and baubles. She incessantly reminds me of it, particularly during our weekly choral rehearsals at the sanctuary.

Each Sabbath, we grace the hallowed halls, and I render melodies on the pianoforte for the choristers. I’ve been at this since adolescence, and possess considerable proficiency. Yet, Betty? She’ll halt the entire rehearsal merely to bellow, “An 音符 astray!” or “Increase the volume! Diminish the sound! Art thou deaf to my direction?”

No melodic imperfections exist. She is equally cognizant of this. It’s solely to diminish my self-worth. She refrains from uttering my appellation, instead referring to me as ‘she’ or ‘her,’ as if I were a phantom. The ensemble observes this, yet maintain their silence.

Well, a few weeks ago, my tolerance reached its nadir. I decided it was time to administer a dose of her own remedy. And let me tell you, the retribution I dispensed at the post-service repast was IMPECCABLE because I ⬇️… unleashed a performance of my own.

The post-service repast was in full swing in the church hall. Platters of finger sandwiches and cakes circulated amongst the congregation. Betty, predictably, held court near the buffet table, a small cluster of nodding heads surrounding her. I, however, positioned myself strategically near the piano, a silent observer of the unfolding drama.

As I anticipated, she soon sought me out, her eyes glinting with that familiar, dismissive amusement. She approached, not directly, but angled herself to address a lady beside her, ensuring her voice carried to me.

“Such a pity,” she began, loud enough for all within a ten-foot radius to hear, “that our dear departed Eleanor, bless her soul, is no longer with us. She truly had a gift for the pianoforte. The sanctuary positively resonated when *she* played. Remember those glorious Handel pieces, Margaret? Eleanor filled this hall with such… presence.” She paused, glancing at me out of the corner of her eye. “Now… well, it’s… different.” She waved a dismissive hand, as if swatting away an irritating fly.

This was it. My moment. I smiled, a saccharine, overly sweet smile that I knew would unsettle her. I strolled towards her, carrying a small plate with a single, perfectly iced petit four.

“Betty,” I said, finally using her name, clear and resonant. The conversation around her faltered, heads turning towards us. She visibly stiffened, unused to being addressed directly by me, let alone by her given name.

“Yes?” she snapped, her eyes narrowed.

I continued my smile, unwavering. “You know,” I began, my voice calm and even, “it’s quite fascinating how memory works, isn’t it? Especially when colored by… fondness.” I took a delicate bite of my petit four, savoring the sugary sweetness.

She blinked, momentarily taken aback by my unexpected direct address and the shift in tone. “What are you implying?” she demanded, her voice laced with suspicion.

“Oh, nothing,” I replied innocently. “Just musing. Because I recall Eleanor being… well, quite fond of complaining during rehearsals herself. In fact,” I continued, my eyes sweeping over the small gathering now fully focused on our exchange, “I distinctly remember her struggling with the Bach fugue we performed for Easter that year. She kept missing the C sharp in the third measure. Repeatedly. Poor dear. And remember that time with the Handel’s Messiah? She completely lost her place during the ‘Hallelujah’ chorus and stopped playing altogether for a good ten seconds. It was rather… noticeable.”

A few gasps rippled through the small crowd. Margaret, the lady Betty had been addressing, coughed nervously and shifted her weight. I pressed on, my smile never faltering.

“Of course,” I continued, my voice taking on a slightly louder, almost theatrical quality, “memory can be selective. We tend to remember the good, and perhaps… gloss over the less perfect moments. Especially when we are reminiscing about those we loved and lost.” I paused, letting my words hang in the air. “It’s understandable, really. To elevate someone in our memory, to remember them as flawless.”

I then turned directly to Betty, my gaze locking with hers. “But Betty, darling,” I said, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried through the suddenly silent hall, “perfection is an illusion. Even Eleanor, lovely as she was, had her… off-key moments. Just like we all do.” I took another tiny bite of my petit four.

The silence in the room was palpable. Betty’s face had gone from ruddy to a disconcerting shade of pale. Her mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. The onlookers were a mixture of stunned and subtly amused. Margaret was actively avoiding eye contact, fiddling with her napkin.

I finished my petit four, placed the empty plate on a nearby table, and patted Betty gently on the arm. “Do enjoy the rest of the repast, Betty,” I said sweetly, and then, turning to the rest of the room, announced in a clear, cheerful voice, “Lovely sandwiches, aren’t they?” And with that, I walked away, leaving Betty speechless and surrounded by an audience who had just witnessed her carefully constructed pedestal crumble.

The following Sabbath, Betty was noticeably subdued. During rehearsal, she remained silent, her gaze fixed on the music sheets. Not a single “音符 astray!” or volume instruction was uttered. She even, almost imperceptibly, nodded at me when I finished playing a particularly challenging passage. And at the repast, she actually addressed me by my name, asking, albeit stiffly, if I was enjoying the weather.

The reckoning wasn’t explosive. It wasn’t a shouting match or a dramatic confrontation. It was quiet, pointed, and delivered with a smile. And it was, indeed, impeccable. Betty’s devaluing whispers haven’t entirely ceased, but they are now significantly muted, and often directed at the buffet table rather than at me. And sometimes, just sometimes, I catch her looking at me with something that might, just might, be a flicker of… respect. Or perhaps, just regret. And for now, that is more than enough.