The turkey was a twenty-pound monument to my exhaustion.
It sat on the counter, glistening with glaze I had made from scratch (bourbon, maple, and orange zest), smelling of warmth and Christmas 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’d been on my feet since 5:00 a.m.
Chopping, roasting, cleaning, polishing.
“Anna!” Sylvia’s voice sliced 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. “Coming, Sylvia. I’ll get it from the fridge.”
I walked into the dining room. It was a magazine scene: crystal glasses, silver cutlery, roaring fireplace.
My husband, David, sat at the head of the table, laughing at something his junior partner colleague Mark had said.
David looked handsome in his dark gray suit. He looked successful. He looked like the man I thought I’d married three years ago: a charming, ambitious lawyer who promised to take care of me.
