I never told my in-laws that I’m the daughter of the Chief Justice. When I was seven months pregnant, they made me cook the entire Christmas dinner by myself…-thaithao
I was seven months pregnant, and my back felt like a railroad spike had been driven into my lumbar spine. I’d been on my feet since 5:00 a.m.
Chopping, grilling, cleaning, polishing.
“Anna!” Sylvia’s voice echoed through the kitchen like a serrated knife. My mother-in-law didn’t speak; she shrieked. “Where’s the cranberry sauce? David’s plate is dry!”
I wiped my hands on my stained apron. “I’ll get it, Sylvia. I’ll get it from the refrigerator.”
I walked into the dining room. It was a scene straight out of a magazine: crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and a crackling fire.
My husband, David, was sitting at the head of the table, laughing at something his colleague, a junior partner named Mark, had said.
David looked handsome in his dark gray suit. He seemed successful. He looked like the man I thought I’d married three years ago: a charming, ambitious lawyer who had promised to take care of me.
He didn’t look at me when I placed the glass bowl of cranberry sauce on the table.
“It’s about time,” Sylvia said dismissively. She was wearing a red velvet dress that was far too tight for a sixty-year-old woman.
She picked up her fork and speared 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 hoarsely. “I basted it exactly as you said.”
“Well, you must have done it wrong,” she waved me off. “Go get the sauce. Maybe that’ll save it.”
I glanced at David. He was swirling his wine: an aged Bordeaux he’d decanted an hour ago.
“David,” I said quietly. “My back is killing me.” Can I… can I sit down for a minute? The baby’s kicking.
David stopped laughing. He looked at me with cold, annoyed eyes. “Anna, don’t be so dramatic. Mark’s telling us about the Henderson case. Don’t interrupt.”
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