Chapter 1

I was seven months pregnant when my husband threw away the Christmas dinner my mother had sent me.

I grew up in a little Minnesota town where Christmas Eve meant snow, family, and homemade pork-and-sauerkraut pierogi. In the three years since marrying Elliot and moving to Florida, I'd learned to eat whatever his family served.

That Christmas Eve, the table was filled with steamed fish, bland vegetables, and a light soup. I quietly asked him whether we could have pierogi too.

His mother put down her fork.

"All that salt and sour cabbage? You're pregnant, Megan. Think about the baby."

I waited until everyone was asleep. Then I took the frozen pierogi my mom had mailed me out of the freezer and set a pot of water to boil.

Elliot appeared in the doorway.

"Seriously? You can't go one night without stuffing your face?"

"My mother made them."

"You've lived here three years. When are you going to get over those trashy habits from back home?"

He tipped the pot into the trash.

The little dumplings split open, spilling filling into the bag.

My phone was still connected to Mom's call.

"Sweetheart," she was saying, "did you get to eat your Christmas pierogi?"

I looked at the trash can and somehow managed to smile.

"No, Mom. But I think I want to come home."

Elliot reached for my phone. "Don't upset your mother on Christmas."

He took over the call and told her I was being hormonal and unreasonable. He said frozen homemade food could be unsafe and that he was only protecting me and the baby.

Mom protested that she'd made the food carefully and packed it properly. He ended the call.

"You said you wanted to go home," he told me. "What does that mean? Haven't I given you a home?"

His mother appeared in the hall.

"Elliot put your name on the house and takes you to your appointments. You should be grateful."

"Having my name on a deed doesn't mean I'm not allowed to miss my mom."

"It was just a pot of dumplings," Elliot snapped.

"They were my mother's dumplings."

He sighed and put a glass of water in my hand.

"Drink this. Stop acting like a kid with a craving."

He noticed a small red burn on my wrist from the steam and brought me ointment. For a second I remembered the man who'd once driven across town to buy me comfort food at midnight.

Then he added, "And next time don't cook something that smells like that. My mother won't sleep."

The hope went out of me again.

I lay awake with one hand over my stomach.

"Baby," I whispered, "your mom didn't use to be this quiet."