It sat on the counter, glistening with the glaze I had made from scratch—bourbon, maple, and orange zest—smelling of warmth and holiday cheer. But to me, it smelled like slavery.
My ankles were swollen to the size of grapefruits.
I was seven months pregnant, and my back felt like someone had driven a railroad spike into my lumbar spine. I had been on my feet since 5:00 AM.
Chopping, roasting, cleaning, polishing.
“Anna!” Sylvia’s voice cut through the kitchen like a serrated knife. My mother-in-law didn’t speak; she screeched. “Where is the cranberry sauce? David’s plate is dry!”
I wiped my hands on my stained apron. “Coming, Sylvia. Just getting it from the fridge.”
I walked into the dining room. It was a scene from a magazine: crystal glasses, silver cutlery, a roaring fire.
My husband, David, sat at the head of the table, laughing at something his colleague, a junior partner named Mark, had said.
David looked handsome in his charcoal suit. He looked successful. He looked like the man I thought I had married three years ago—a charming, ambitious lawyer who promised to take care of me.
He didn’t look at me as I placed the crystal bowl of cranberry sauce on the table.
“About time,” Sylvia sniffed. She was wearing a red velvet dress that was too tight for a woman of sixty.
She picked up her fork and poked at the turkey on her plate. “This bird is dry, Anna. Did you baste it every thirty minutes like I told you?”
“Yes, Sylvia,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “I basted it exactly as you said.”
“Well, you must have done it wrong,” she dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “Go get the gravy. Maybe that will save it.”
I looked at David. He was swirling his wine—a vintage Bordeaux I had decanted an hour ago.
“David,” I said softly. “My back is really hurting. Can I… can I sit down for a minute? The baby is kicking hard.”
David stopped laughing. He looked at me, his eyes cold and annoyed. “Anna, don’t be dramatic. Mark is telling us about the Henderson case. Don’t interrupt.”
“But David…”
“Just get the gravy, babe,” he said, turning back to Mark. “Sorry, she gets a little emotional with the pregnancy hormones.”
Mark chuckled uncomfortably. “No worries, man. Women, right?”
I felt a tear prick the corner of my eye. I turned back to the kitchen.
I was the daughter of William Thorne. I had grown up in a library filled with first-edition law books.
I had attended debutante balls in D.C. I had played chess with Supreme Court Justices in my living room.
But David didn’t know that. Sylvia didn’t know that.
When I met David, I was rebellious. I wanted to escape the suffocating pressure of my father’s legacy.
I wanted to be loved for me, not for my last name. So I told David I was estranged from my family. I told him my father was a retired clerk in Florida.
I thought I was finding true love. Instead, I found a man who loved my vulnerability because it made him feel powerful.
I walked back into the dining room with the gravy boat. My legs were shaking uncontrollably.
I looked at the empty chair next to David. It was set with a plate, but no one was sitting there.
I couldn’t stand anymore. I walked over and pulled the chair out.
The screech of the wooden legs against the hardwood floor silenced the room.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Sylvia asked, her voice dangerously low.
“I need to sit,” I said, gripping the chair back. “Just for a minute to eat.”
Sylvia stood up. She slammed her hand onto the table, making the silverware jump.
“Servants don’t sit with the family,” she hissed.
I froze. “I am his wife, Sylvia. I am carrying your grandchild.”
“You are a useless girl who can’t even cook a turkey right,” she spat. “You eat in the kitchen, standing up, after we are finished. That is how it works in my house. Know your place.”
I looked at David. My husband. The father of my child.
“David?” I pleaded.
David took a sip of wine. He didn’t look at me. He looked at the wall.
“Listen to my mother, Anna,” he said casually. “She knows best. Don’t make a scene in front of Mark. Go to the kitchen.”
A sharp pain shot through my lower abdomen. It wasn’t hunger. It was a cramp. A bad one.
I gasped, my hand flying to my stomach. “David… something is wrong. It hurts.”
“Go!” Sylvia shouted, pointing a manicured finger at the kitchen door.
I turned. I stumbled. The world tilted.
Leave a Comment