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.
He didn’t look at me when I placed the glass dish of cranberry sauce on the table.
“About time,” Sylvia sneered. She wore a red velvet dress too tight for a sixty-year-old woman.
She speared the turkey on her plate with her fork. “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 dismissed me with a wave. “Go get the sauce. Maybe that’ll save it.”
I looked at David. He was swirling his wine: an aged Bordeaux he’d decanted an hour earlier.
“David,” I said softly. “My back hurts so much. Can I… can I sit for just a moment? The baby’s kicking hard.”
