The dining room smelled of sage, roasted chestnuts, and expensive red wine. It was the smell of a perfect , the kind you see on the front of greeting cards or in glossy lifestyle magazines.
I stood by the kitchen island, wiping my hands on a stained apron. My feet were throbbing, swollen inside my house slippers. I had been awake since 4:00 AM. I had brined the turkey, peeled five pounds of potatoes, glazed the ham, and hand-whipped the heavy cream for the pumpkin pie. Every dish on that mahogany table was a labor of love—or perhaps, a labor of desperation.

Through the open archway, I could see them.

Mark, my husband of three years, sat at the head of the table. He was laughing at something his mother, Agnes, had just said. Agnes sat to his right, swirling her Cabernet in a crystal glass—a glass I had purchased two months ago with my quarterly bonus.

“It really is a lovely spread, Mark,” Agnes cooed, her voice dripping with that specific tone of artificial sweetness she reserved for her son. “You provide so well for this family.”

“I try, Mom,” Mark beamed, puffed up with pride. “Only the best for you.”

I swallowed the lump of resentment forming in my throat. You provide? I thought. You haven’t paid a utility bill in six months.

I untied my apron, smoothed down my simple grey dress, and walked into the dining room. I was exhausted, but I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten all day.

As I pulled out the chair opposite Agnes, the laughter stopped abruptly.

Agnes set her glass down with a sharp clink. She looked me up and down, her lip curling in distaste.

I laughed, a true, deep sound that came from my belly. I turned off my phone, tossed it onto the cushion next to me, and took a bite of the best pizza I had ever tasted.