“I need to sit,” I said, gripping the chair back. My voice didn’t sound like mine—more desperate, more tired. “Just for a minute. To eat.”
Sylvia stood so fast her chair nearly tipped. She planted her palm on the table, rattling silverware.
“Servants don’t sit with the family,” she hissed.
For a second, the room went too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. I stared at her, waiting for David to correct her, to laugh it off, to remind his mother that I was his wife.
“I’m not a servant,” I said, each word pushed out through pain. “I’m carrying your grandchild.”
Sylvia’s mouth twisted. “You’re a useless girl who can’t cook properly. You eat in the kitchen after we’re done. That’s how it works in my house. Know your place.”
I turned to David. My husband. The father of the baby pressing against my ribs.
“David?” I whispered, pleading.
David didn’t even look at me fully. He stared past me like I was a shadow on the wall. “Listen to my mother,” he said casually. “Don’t make a scene.”
A sharp pain seized my lower abdomen, sudden and wrong. My breath caught. My hand flew to my stomach.
“David… something’s wrong,” I gasped. “It hurts.”