Chapter 2

The next day, Elliot insisted I attend the extended family's holiday dinner.

"I don't feel well," I told him.

"We have relatives to see. Don't make this difficult."

At the restaurant, his aunt greeted me with a joke about how loud Midwestern women were. Somebody imitated my Minnesota accent. Another person suggested our child should sound more like the father's family.

I smiled tightly.

"I do have an accent," I said. "At least my mother taught me not to mock people at their own dinner table."

The laughter died. Beneath the table, Elliot squeezed my hand hard enough to warn me.

His mother pushed a bowl of plain soup toward me.

"Eat this. It's healthier."

At the other end of the table was a tray of savory pastries. I glanced at them, but Elliot slid the soup closer.

"Behave," he murmured.

His mother sighed. "If you'd married Natalie, you wouldn't have to manage all these strange food habits. She's always understood our family."

Natalie was Elliot's childhood friend and former girlfriend. She worked in prenatal nutrition, which his family treated as a license to police every bite I ate.

Elliot looked at me and said, "Megan's always been a little food-obsessed."

I set my spoon down.

Later, while we were driving home, Mom called to say she'd mailed another insulated package. Elliot frowned and pulled up the delivery-tracking app.

"I already asked the carrier to return it," he said.

I stared at him. "You did what?"

"Your mother keeps sending food that's not good for you. I'm handling it."

"It's from my mom, Elliot. You don't get to decide whether I receive it."

He shrugged. "Someone has to be reasonable."

I asked him to take me to the shipping center. He refused, so I went myself.