Chapter 2 - THE KITCHEN OF SHAME
By 8:15 a.m., I hadn't replied to the group chat. I was sitting on the edge of our sofa, clutching a heating pad against my abdomen, trying to breathe through a sharp wave of surgical pain.
Suddenly, the front door burst open. It wasn't Grant. It was his older sister, Noreen, holding a plastic bag containing two store-bought bags of ice and a box of Hawaiian rolls.
"Maren! What on earth are you still doing sitting down?" Noreen demanded, marching into the living room without taking off her shoes. "Mom is having an absolute panic attack! The turkey isn't even seasoned yet, and guests arrive at one!"
I looked up at her, my face pale. "Noreen, I had major abdominal surgery four days ago. My babies are in the NICU. I cannot cook dinner for twenty people."
Noreen rolled her eyes so hard I thought they would roll out of her head. "Oh, please. My neighbor had a C-section and she was vacuuming her house three days later. Women give birth every day, Maren. You aren't the first person to have a baby."
"I had triplets at thirty-three weeks!" I snapped, my voice shaking with raw anger. "My skin is held together by staples!"
"Well, Grant said you were feeling much better this morning," Noreen said coldly, tossing her car keys onto my coffee table. "He said you were just feeling emotional because of the hormones. Get your coat. I'm driving you over. Mom said if you aren't there in ten minutes, she's calling Grant's grandmother to tell her why Thanksgiving is ruined."
That was Darlene's favorite weapon: emotional blackmail using ninety-two-year-old Grandma Edith, who had a weak heart and practically worshipped family gatherings.
I felt a sickening knot tie itself in my throat. Grant had told his family I was just "emotional"? He had thrown me under the bus before the day had even started.
Too weak to physically fight Noreen, and terrified of the narrative they were creating while I sat alone, I dragged myself up. Every step felt like molten lead was pouring through my pelvis. I threw an oversized trench coat over my sweatpants, grabbed my pumping bag and milk cooler, and let Noreen haul me into her SUV.
When we arrived at Darlene’s sprawling, brick suburban home, the driveway was already packed with cars.
I stepped through the front door and was instantly hit by the overwhelming sound of laughing relatives, clinking wine glasses, and the loud, boisterous voice of Darlene Whitlock directing traffic from the hallway.
"Look who finally decided to show up!" Darlene announced loudly to the entire living room full of aunts, uncles, and cousins.
The room fell silent. Eighteen pairs of eyes turned to look at me. I was pale, wearing no makeup, clutching my stomach, and carrying a medical cooler.
"Darlene, I need to sit down," I murmured quietly, heading toward the living room couch.
"Oh no, you don't!" Darlene intercepted me, grabbing my arm with a grip far firmer than a woman in her sixties should have had. "The turkey is sitting on the counter. The stuffing ingredients need chopping. Grant is downstairs fixing the folding chairs, so don't bother looking for him to rescue you."
"Mom, please," I whispered, tears threatening to spill over. "I am in severe pain."
Darlene leaned in close, her eyes narrowing into dark slits, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper that only I could hear. "Listen to me, Maren. You’ve been leeching off my son for eight years. You spent tens of thousands of his money on that IVF garbage, and now your kids are sitting in an incubator costing thousands more a day. The least you can do to pay this family back is cook a damn turkey without making a scene."
The sheer malice in her voice made my blood run cold.
"My money paid for the IVF, Darlene," I whispered back, my voice trembling with rage. "I worked sixty hours a week at the restaurant for six years!"
"And who gave you the stability to work those hours?" Darlene scoffed aloud, stepping back and speaking at full volume for the room to hear. "Come on, everybody! Maren is going to show us those professional chef skills she’s always bragging about!"
A few cousins clapped awkwardly. My husband, Grant, emerged from the basement holding a wooden chair. He looked at me, saw the agony written across my face, and immediately looked away, busy adjusting the leg of the chair.
"Grant," I called out, my voice raspy. "Grant, help me."
Grant cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact. "Just do what you can, Maren. Don't stress out."
I was pushed into the kitchen. On the massive granite island sat a raw, twenty-four-pound turkey, three sacks of potatoes, pounds of fresh herbs, celery, bread crumbs, and massive stainless steel pots.
May you like
I stood there, swaying on my feet. The sharp pain in my lower stomach flared violently, hot and throbbing. I grabbed the edge of the granite counter to keep from collapsing.
Darlene stood in the doorway, crossing her arms, a smirking, triumphant smile on her face. "Get to work, Maren. Eight o'clock came and went. You're behind schedule."
