My Husband Doesn't Allow Me to Eat Christmas Turkey

I had been pregnant for eight months, however, my husband Stephen asked me to cook a festive meal for his friends who had come over to celebrate Christmas.

I cooked turkey, mashed potatoes, lemon pie, and Christmas cake, even folding the napkins into the shape of Christmas trees.

But when I finally sat down to help myself to a piece of turkey, the doorbell rang again.

Stephen's assistant, Daisy, appeared at the door, her makeup flawless, wearing high heels and holding a gift.

Stephen greeted her with enthusiasm, ushering her into the dining room. Without hesitation, he pushed the turkey in front of her. "Daisy, try some of Alison's cooking," he said, turning to me. "Go to the kitchen and prepare the Christmas cake."

However, while I was cutting the cake, I heard Daisy and my children mocking me.

"Kids, what do you think of your mom?" Daisy asked.

"Mom is so fat now, she looks like a pig from the farm!" my son answered.

"And your mom's stretch marks look like a bunch of maggots crawling all over her. Even Santa would be scared of her!" Daisy added.

My heart sank.

Carrying the Christmas cake, I walked into the dining room to find them all laughing at my bulging belly. I felt like a clown, helpless and exposed.

I tried to hold my composure and asked Daisy to apologize, but Stephen's face hardened.

"Daisy was just playing truth or dare with the kids. Why are you overreacting?" Stephen said, his tone cold. "Besides, you really should watch your weight. Look at yourself—you've let yourself go."

"Alison, don't take it personally. It's for you and the baby's good. Eating too much isn't good for the delivery," Daisy said.

The children chimed in, "Mom, you really are eating too much. You should be more like Ms. Daisy and keep your figure!"

They all helped themselves to the Christmas cake I had made, laughing and sharing it like a happy family. Then they kicked me out, telling me to go out and get some exercise in the snowstorm.

"She's just eight months pregnant, and she thinks she's royalty! She's as fat as a pig. I'm the only one who would stay with her."

"Don't worry. She'll be back in less than ten minutes, begging me to forgive her."

But this time, he had miscalculated.

Without hesitation, I grabbed the turkey and Christmas cake, turned, and headed downstairs, throwing it all in the trash.

On Thanksgiving, I had spent all day cooking for the family, only to not even taste the turkey I had so carefully prepared. I thought Christmas would be different, but here I was. Not only did Stephen deny me a single bite of the turkey, but he also laughed at me in front of his friends, his assistant, and even my own children, calling me a pig.

He had completely forgotten—I was fat because I was eight months pregnant!

This home didn't deserve the effort I had put into it.

That night, snow was falling heavily as I wrapped myself in a thin nightgown and walked to the law office, chilled to the bone. The cold from the floor crept up my spine, sending shivers to my brain.

"It's snowing, and you're eight months pregnant—why did you come here by yourself? Does your child's father know about this?"

"He's dead."

The lawyer looked at me with sympathy, glancing at the stack of medical records from my visits to the hospital. There were also the large bank transfers from me to Stephen, who had asked for huge amounts of money under the guise of throwing me a grand wedding, which had yet to happen.

"Since you've decided on divorce, we'll take care of it as quickly as possible."

I glanced down at the papers on the table: my divorce agreement and every financial detail of the investments Stephen had taken from my parents' inheritance. The house, the money, the company—every single one of his achievements had been built on my money.

"If you withdraw your investments now, he'll not only go bankrupt, but he'll also be buried in debt. Stephen's company is already drowning in debt—it's just holding on by a thread," the lawyer said, pausing. "Are you sure?"

I lifted my head and spoke coldly, "Yes."

"What about the children?" he asked. "He may use them to play the sympathy card for custody."

I instinctively placed a hand on my swollen belly, a sharp pain hitting my chest.

I remembered the previous visit to the shady clinic and the doctor's question—whether I was considering an abortion. At that moment, I almost signed the consent form, but just as I picked up the pen, the baby inside me seemed to remind me that the problem wasn't with the child.

"The children stay with me," I said, calm yet firm. "He doesn't deserve to be a father."