I froze. “I’m his wife, Sylvia. I’m pregnant with your grandchild.”
“You’re useless. You can’t even cook a turkey properly,” she spat. “You eat standing up in the kitchen after we’ve finished. That’s how it works in my house. Know your place.”
I looked at David. My husband. The father of my child.
“David?” I pleaded.
David took a sip of wine. He didn’t look at me. He stared at the wall.
“Listen to my mother, Anna,” he said indifferently. “She knows best. Don’t make a scene in front of Mark. Go to the kitchen.”
A sharp pain shot through my lower abdomen. It wasn’t hunger. It was a cramp. A very strong one.
I gasped, clutching my stomach. “Dav
“Something’s wrong. It hurts.”
“Let’s go!” Sylvia shouted, pointing a careful finger at the kitchen door.
