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.”