The turkey weighed almost as much as my regret. It sat in the center of the marble counter like a trophy no one had asked me to win, its skin lacquered with a glaze that had taken hours to perfect, brown sugar melted into bourbon, citrus oils clinging to the air like forced cheer. The kitchen smelled like celebration, yet my body felt like it was being slowly dismantled piece by piece.
By the time the oven timer rang, my ankles were swollen beyond recognition and my lower back pulsed with a deep, relentless ache that made it hard to breathe evenly.
I was well into my third trimester, and the child inside me had been restless all morning, reacting to every sharp movement and every wave of stress I failed to suppress. I had been awake since before dawn, moving from stove to sink to counter in a rhythm that felt less like preparation and more like punishment.
“Rebecca.” The voice came sharp and high, slicing through the room from the dining area. “Why is the table still missing the relish.
Aaron cannot eat dry meat.”
Judith Blake did not call out so much as announce her displeasure to the walls themselves. I dried my hands on the apron I had already ruined and answered quietly that I was bringing it now, even though my knees trembled as I walked.
The dining room looked like a photograph staged by someone who had never cooked a meal in their life. Polished silver caught the firelight.
Crystal glasses stood untouched. At the head of the table sat my husband, Aaron, relaxed and confident in his tailored navy jacket, smiling as he listened to his coworker Paul talk about a case that meant nothing to me.
Aaron looked successful. He looked satisfied.
He looked nothing like the man who had once promised that I would never have to prove my worth to anyone.
He did not look up when I set the bowl down.
Judith examined the turkey with open disdain and shook her head. “You rushed it,” she said, spearing the meat with her fork. “I told you to baste it properly.
This is what happens when you do not listen.”
“I followed your instructions,” I replied, my voice thin from exhaustion. “Every half hour.”
“Well then you must have done it wrong,” she said dismissively. “Fetch the gravy.
Perhaps it can rescue this disaster.”
I turned toward my husband, hoping for something I had stopped expecting. “Aaron,” I said softly. “I need to sit down.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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