When I came home late from work, my husband slapped me and screamed, “Do you know the time, you useless bi:tch? Get in the kitchen and cook for my mother!” I cooked for an hour, only for her to take one bite, spit it out, and shove me so hard I started bleeding—I knew I was losing the baby. I reached for my phone to call 911. My husband threw it away. I looked him in the eye and said, “Call my father.” They had no idea who he really was.

Dave’s voice drifted from the living room—low, controlled, and soaked in whiskey. He appeared in the doorway like a storm in a button-down shirt, eyes fixed on me as if I’d done something unforgivable.

“I’m sorry,” I began, automatically shrinking my voice. “Something came up at the office. I had to—”

His hand moved before my sentence finished. The slap cracked across my face, sharp enough to make my vision flash white. My cheek burned. My ears rang.

“Excuses,” he hissed. “My mother’s been waiting. Get in the kitchen.”

Seven months pregnant, I stumbled past him with one hand pressed to my face. My body had been fighting nausea all day, and my back felt like it could split in half if I breathed wrong. I kept telling myself: just get through tonight. Just keep the peace. Just protect the tiny life inside me.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Higgins sat at the table like a queen claiming her throne, her polished nail tapping lightly against a wine glass.

“Finally,” she said without looking up. “Roast beef. Medium rare. And cream of mushroom soup from scratch. Don’t use anything from a can.”