Behind the Kitchen Door
I felt the heat of the oven on my back like a relentless stare.
My belly throbbed against the apron; the weight of the baby reminded me that I was not just a servant tonight.
I slipped past the pepper grinder, the clink of silverware echoing, and slipped into the small bathroom.
The door clicked shut and the fluorescent light hummed, a harsh contrast to the candle‑lit chaos outside.
I pressed my hand against my swollen womb, feeling the tremor of each breath.
My phone buzzed in my palm, a hidden line I’d programmed with my father’s name: “Chief Justice – Urgent.”
“Dad,” I whispered, voice cracking, “they’re forcing me to stand. Sylvia’s pushing me, David’s laughing, and I’m losing the baby.”
He answered, the gravitas of his courtroom voice slipping through the tiny speaker.
“You know I will not let this go,” I said, the words sharp as the blade of a gavel.
“I’m already on my way,” he replied, a pause that felt like a hammer falling.
My mind raced, cataloguing each insult, each shove, each cruel joke.
I imagined the courtroom, the headlines, the statutes that would protect a pregnant woman from abuse.
“If you don’t stop this, I’ll file a restraining order and a civil suit—” I felt the surge of power in my fingertips as I dialed his number.
“I’ll be there,” he said, “and I’ll make sure the law reaches every corner of this house.”
A shiver ran through me, part fear, part defiance.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket, feeling the cold metal against my skin, and steadied myself for the next moment.
