My husband slapped me across the face when I came home from work seven months pregnant, then stood beside his mother while I began bleeding on their kitchen floor. But when they mocked my “pathetic country bumpkin” father and called him themselves, they had no idea whose phone was about to ring.

The kitchen was immaculate, glistening with white marble and expensive stainless-steel appliances, completely devoid of warmth. I wiped the blood from my lip with the back of my hand and reached for the cutting board.

I chopped onions through a veil of blurred vision, my tears burning against the freshly bruised skin of my face. I stirred beans with shaking fingers and stood over the hot stove, frying meat while another sharp cramp tightened across my lower belly like a band of heated iron.

Neither Carter nor his mother moved a muscle to help me. They sat at the dining table, speaking in low, comfortable tones about their upcoming weekend trips and high-society acquaintances.

When I finally carried the heavy platters to the table and served them dinner, Mrs. Eleanor picked up her silver fork. She took one small bite of the meat, chewed slowly, and then spat it directly onto her fine porcelain china.

“Absolutely disgusting,” she sneered, dabbing her lips with a cloth napkin as if she had just ingested poison. “Overcooked and completely unpalatable.”

Carter glanced up from his phone, his eyes cold and unforgiving. “She screws everything up. Can’t even handle a simple meal after I work all day paying for this roof.”

“I’m late because I was stuck at work, and I feel violently ill tonight,” I said, my voice hoarse as I tasted the steady trickle of blood from my split lip.

Mrs. Eleanor shoved her chair back with a loud screech against the hardwood floor. “I’m sick of supporting a freeloading, ungrateful daughter-in-law who happens to use her pregnancy as an excuse for everything!”