I was six months pregnant. My lower back throbbed with a persistent, dull ache that had become my constant companion. Sweat beaded on my forehead, stinging my eyes, as I scrubbed the hardwood floor on my hands and knees. The smell of lemon pine cleaner was nauseating, mixing poorly with the subtle metallic tang I had been tasting in the back of my throat all morning.
“You missed a spot under the credenza, Maya,” my Mother-in-Law, Helen, sneered from the plush, cream-colored sofa. She didn’t look up from the glossy pages of her architectural magazine. She reached out blindly, her manicured fingers grazing the rim of a crystal glass filled with iced tea. Finding it empty, she rattled the ice cubes loudly. “And I need a refill. Honestly, Leo likes the house perfect when he gets home. Don’t be lazy. Pregnancy isn’t a disease.”
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and forced a tight, obedient nod. “Yes, Helen. I’ll get it.”