When I arrived that morning, she handed me an apron and a long handwritten menu—far too much for one person: turkey, ham, sides, pies, everything. Then she sat down with tea while I spent hours in a hot kitchen, my back aching, my feet swollen, the baby pressing heavily against my ribs.
I asked Aaron for help twice.
The first time, he kissed my forehead and said, “Just get through today.”
The second time, he lowered his voice and told me not to embarrass him.
By dinner, I was shaking. Everyone sat down except me. Eleanor told me to eat in the kitchen, standing, saying sitting too much would make labor harder. I was too exhausted to argue.
I leaned against the counter, trying to steady my breathing through a wave of pain that felt wrong—different.
When I finally tried to sit in a nearby chair, Eleanor stepped in front of me.
“I need to sit down,” I said quietly.
She snapped that I was being dramatic.
I moved past her anyway.
That’s when she shoved me.
Hard.
My hip hit the counter. The plate in my hands shattered on the floor. A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my abdomen, and warm liquid ran down my legs. I grabbed the counter to stay upright.
Eleanor didn’t look shocked.
Just irritated.