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Thomas tried to follow, but one look from my father stopped him cold.
Jonathan remained behind, pale and silent, while Margaret kept repeating that the evening had been misunderstood.
At the hospital, the doctors told me I was severely dehydrated, my blood pressure was dangerously high, and the stress had triggered contractions.
They gave me medication, fluids, and a steroid shot in case the baby came early.
I was admitted overnight for monitoring.
My father sat beside my bed until close to midnight.
When I finally stopped shaking, I told him everything—not just Christmas dinner, but months of being ordered around, the comments about my background, the way Thomas always chose whatever protected his image, the way Margaret’s insults grew crueler whenever he was present and refused to stop her.
‘I feel stupid,’ I admitted.
‘If they had known who you were, they would have treated me differently.’
