“Where is the cranberry sauce?” she snapped impatiently from the dining room. “Thomas’s plate is dry!”
I carried the heavy bowl into the room as calmly as I could manage. The table truly looked like something straight from a luxury holiday magazine—crystal glasses shining brilliantly under the light, polished silver cutlery, and candles flickering warmly beside the fireplace.
My husband, Thomas Whitmore, sat proudly at the head of the table, laughing and joking with one of his senior colleagues from the law firm. He barely glanced at me as I entered.
“About time,” Margaret muttered under her breath. “The turkey is already getting cold.”
I set the dish down gently, my hands shaking.
“Thomas,” I said quietly, leaning toward him, “my back hurts a lot. Can I sit down for just a moment?”
He sighed deeply, clearly irritated that I had dared to speak up and interrupt his conversation.
“Claire, please,” he said coldly, his voice dripping with condescension. “Don’t embarrass me in front of my important guests. Just listen to what my mother says.”
