The roasted turkey was a twenty-pound monument to my absolute physical and emotional exhaustion. It sat upon the sprawling quartz kitchen counter, glistening under the recessed lighting with the elaborate glaze I had spent hours preparing from scratch—a meticulous reduction of aged bourbon, Vermont maple syrup, and freshly grated orange zest. It smelled of cinnamon, warmth, and the idyllic holiday cheer that magazines promised. But to me, the heavy, spiced aroma in the air smelled only of indentured servitude.
My ankles were swollen to the size of grapefruits, throbbing against the restrictive fabric of my shoes. I was seven months pregnant with my first child, and my lower back felt as though a rusted railroad spike had been driven directly into my lumbar spine. I had been standing on the hard, imported Italian tile since five o’clock in the morning. Chopping, basting, roasting, scrubbing, and polishing the silver until my reflection in the platters looked like a hollow-eyed ghost of the woman I used to be.
“Eleanor!” The voice sliced through the hum of the kitchen appliances like a serrated carving knife.
My mother-in-law, Beatrice Vance, did not speak; she commanded. She possessed a shrill, piercing frequency that could curdle milk.
“Where is the homemade cranberry compote? Arthur’s plate is terribly dry, and we are waiting!”
