‘I think I need to call my doctor,’ I said.
Thomas leaned toward me, smiling for Jonathan while
speaking through his teeth.
‘Not tonight.
Jonathan is here.
My mother has spent weeks planning this dinner.
Go clean yourself up and finish serving.’
That was the moment something inside me went cold and clear.
It wasn’t just that they were being cruel.
It was that they fully expected my pain to wait until it became convenient for them.
My phone buzzed in the pocket of my apron.
Hours earlier, while basting the turkey, I had sent my father a quiet message: Call me when you can.
I had done it half out of instinct, half out of shame.
I didn’t want to complain.
I didn’t want to sound childish.
I certainly didn’t want to admit that the family I had married into treated me worse than hired help.
