My mother criticized my pregnant wife’s cooking throughout dinner, then asked for her chocolate cake recipe. When she called me screaming that night, I expected another argument to smooth over. But Laura had reached a decision I hadn’t seen coming, and I was about to discover my part in it.
Laura was seven months pregnant, and she’d spent six hours cooking for my mother.
When I got home that Friday, she was standing over the stove with one hand pressed against her back.
She shifted her weight, then shifted it back and grimaced.
I dragged a chair behind her.
She’d spent six hours cooking
“Sit. I’ll set the table.”
She sank into it and gave me a tired smile.
“Thank you.”
I kissed her forehead. “Anything for you, my love.”
Her smile faltered.
“Anything for you, my love.”
“Anything…” she murmured.
I straightened to get the plates.
The chocolate cake stood on the counter, three layers tall.
