she sits in the front pew bright, A Sunday saint in the morning light. Her smile so wide, her hands so kind, To strangers, she’s generous, pure of mind. But in her home, the story’s told, Of a woman whose heart is icy and cold. Nit-picking each detail, each small flaw, She expects perfection, without a pause. “I gave so much,” she whispers low, Her gifts, her time—these debts we owe. “Remember the help I gave, the years I spent, You owe me now, my recompense!” "Your will, your way," she says with grace, A mask she wears to hide her face. But behind the words, a hint of scorn, For her way is lost, and she feels torn. She asks for help with no clear plan, Then rants and raves when things don't land. A sarcastic tone, a bitter plea, "Your will, your way," she says to me. A saint to the world, but at home, a queen, Demanding, demeaning, rarely serene. Generous to others, but family’s the test, In her eyes, no one can do it best. So there she stands, in her Sunday dress, A woman wrapped in self-made stress. With one foot in heaven, the other in blame, she lives, always shifting the game.