I came home in the dark of early morning and went straight to the kitchen, because that was the only place in the house where no one asked me to smile. A whole bird sat on the counter, shining under the stove light, smelling like something comforting to anyone who hadn’t been the one standing for hours seasoning, roasting, wiping, scrubbing, polishing until their hands shook. I was seven months pregnant. My ankles were swollen, my lower back burned like a nail had been driven into it, and every kick from the baby felt heavier than the last—as if my body was warning me that I was reaching a limit no one cared to see.

From the dining room, Sylvia’s voice snapped through the air. She didn’t call my name like family. She called it like a command.

“Anna! Where is the sauce? David’s plate is dry!”

I breathed in, swallowed the ache in my throat, and carried the bowl out with both hands, careful not to spill because anything less than perfect meant I would pay for it. The dining room looked like one of those staged photographs people post to prove they have a beautiful life: crystal glasses catching warm light, plates arranged just so, a clean white tablecloth, wine that had been opened at exactly the right moment. At the head of the table sat my husband, David—sharp suit, controlled laugh, eyes bright with the attention of his guest. Mark, his colleague, leaned back in his chair like he belonged there too, like my labor was simply part of the furniture.

I set the bowl down. No one thanked me. Sylvia’s gaze traveled from the food to my face, as if she were inspecting an employee.

“This is dry,” she said, prodding at her slice. “You didn’t do it the way I told you.”

“I did,” I whispered. My voice sounded thin even to me. “Every thirty minutes.”

“Then you did it wrong,” she dismissed, and flicked her hand toward the kitchen like she was shooing a fly. “Go. Bring the gravy. Maybe that can rescue it.”

I looked at David, hoping for something—one softening glance, one tiny acknowledgment that I was his wife, not a waitress. He swirled his wine instead, and when I spoke, my words barely reached him.

“David… my back really hurts. Can I sit for a minute? The baby’s kicking hard.”

He finally looked at me, and the expression wasn’t concern. It was irritation, like I’d interrupted something important.

“Anna, don’t be dramatic,” he said. “Mark’s telling us about a case. Don’t interrupt.”