At Easter dinner, seven months pregnant, I was forced to cook for 20 guests. The moment I finally sat down, my mother-in-law shoved my face into my plate while my husband laughed it off. They expected silence—but they had no idea that dinner was the beginning of their downfall.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but that Easter was never about dinner. It was about the end of something—and the beginning of something far more final. The kitchen in my own hous…