Three days after our wedding, my husband kicked the dinner table so hard that plates shattered across the floor.

Eleanor didn’t need much prompting. Narcissists rarely do. Give them a captive audience and a shred of validation, and they will hang themselves with their own words.

"You see, Maya, my husband tried to be equal with me when we first married," Eleanor began, cutting into her casserole. "It was chaos. So, I took control. But men are visual, physical creatures. They need to feel like they are the kings of their castles. So, I taught David that he must rule with an iron fist, while I guide the fist."

"So, taking my paycheck was your idea?" I asked, feigning innocent curiosity.

"Of course," she scoffed. "If a woman has her own money, she has a way out. If you control the purse strings, you control the woman. David’s salary goes into an account I manage, and yours will join it. You will get a weekly allowance for groceries and gas."

"And the physical discipline?" I asked, my voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. "He told me last night that if I didn't listen, he would hit me. Did you teach him that, too?"

Eleanor didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. She dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "Sometimes a dog needs a rolled-up newspaper, Maya. It’s not abuse; it’s correction. I told David to establish dominance early. Did he?"

"Oh, he certainly tried," I smiled, a genuine, chilling smile that finally made the older woman pause.

"What do you mean, tried?" Eleanor demanded, her tone sharpening. "Where is my son?"

I stood up slowly, picking up my glass of water. "You know, Eleanor, the problem with raising a coward is that they tend to fold the second they meet real resistance. Your son didn't establish dominance last night. He established his own pathetic weakness."