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!”