My Husband Doesn't Allow Me to Eat Christmas Turkey

By the time I signed the agreement and returned home, the snowstorm had stopped, but the biting wind had cut through me. Numbly, I climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.

The party was over, and the dining room was a mess. Even the turkey I had hoped to eat was unfinished, discarded on the floor.

Stephen sat at the table, smoking. The moment he saw me, his face darkened instantly. He grabbed the ashtray from the table and hurled it at me.

I was only a year older than Daisy! Why did I have to put up with so much?

Every time I reacted to something Daisy said, Stephen would immediately take her side, belittling me along with her.

"Daisy's right, you know. Why are you so petty? Can't you take a bit of truth?"

I was angry and disappointed. I went from being a pampered lady to a despised woman.

I had fought with him, trying to hold onto the little dignity I had left in this marriage. But now, I didn't want to argue anymore.

It was pointless to fight for a relationship that was rotten beyond repair.

The ashtray hit my stomach, and the pain was sharp and bitter.

He must have thought that my silence meant I accepted my fault.

With a smug smile, he said, "What are you standing there for? Can't you see how messy the table is? Hurry up and clean up."

I supported myself with one hand on the counter and glanced at the floor. It was covered with the remnants of their dinner—spilled wine mixed with cream, everything a mess.

They complained about me being in the way when they were celebrating, but when it came to cleaning up the mess, I was the only one left to do it.

I had no intention of cleaning. I was just going to my room to freshen up and then join the kids for opening Christmas presents.

But when I twisted the bedroom door handle, Daisy walked out, wearing an alluring black lace nightgown.

She feigned surprise when she saw me.

"Alison? Oh, I didn't know you'd be home. I didn't have anything to wear, so I borrowed yours. You won't mind, right? You're pregnant, so you can't wear it anyway."

"Why are you here?"

"It's snowing heavily outside. I was worried about her going home in this weather, so I let her stay over. You're not going to start a fight over this, are you?" Stephen explained casually.

At that moment, I looked into the living room. Daisy had already joined the kids, and they were opening Christmas presents together under the tree.

The floor was covered with torn wrapping paper, and the kids were laughing joyfully, bouncing around the tree.

"Thanks, Ms. Daisy! This gaming console is so cool!"

"And this watch—we can do video calls with it!"

They carefully hugged the electronic gifts Daisy had brought, their faces lighting up with uncontainable joy.

As for the gifts I had spent so much time preparing—the scarves and hats I had knitted over months—those were just discarded in a pile of scrap paper, left unnoticed.

"Mom, these are so old-fashioned. We don't want them."

My youngest son looked at me and didn't even try to hide his disgust. "Ms. Daisy's gifts are way better!"

"Mom, Ms. Daisy's going to take us skiing this year. You're so fat now, so you should just stay home."

In that moment, it felt like my heart was being squeezed, and the pain made me breathless.