Then it was Christmas. We were hosting Frank’s mother, Corrinne, and my parents, plus Nancy and Dr. Scott. On Christmas Day, I tried to take our usual picture in front of the tree. Frank Junior and Spencer looked adorable in their suits and bow ties. I looked pregnant in my black velvet dress. Frank, standing behind me, with one hand on each of the boys’ shoulders, looked glum. Beyond glum. He looked miserable. “Smile!” I called, running back and forth from the tripod to the fireplace, where the boys kept trying to turn around to see if Santa had refilled their stockings between shots. Frank never smiled. His eyes were hooded, his lips pressed tightly together, like he was trying to keep himself from shouting. I knew, before I even looked at the shots, that none of them were keepers.

I put a roast in the oven in the morning and slid my side dishes in to heat at noon. By two o’clock, I’d just finished setting the table when the doorbell rang. My parents came inside with their arms full of presents, my father gruff and bulky, my mother giggly and flushed. “Hi, honey,” she said, and hugged me.

“Come in, Mom,” I said. “Let me take your coat.” She’d dressed in the plaid pants she insisted on wearing each Christmas even though she’d gained a good twenty pounds since she’d bought them, and the zipper would race down her belly, revealing a beige triangle of girdle, if she made any sudden movements. On top, she wore a green sweater with an appliquéd Santa ho-ho-ho-ing across her chest. A tiny brass bell jingled from the top of Santa’s cap. Red-and-green-striped socks peeked out of the tops of her shoes. She was carrying an aluminum commuter mug that read JINGLE BELLS and did not smell like it contained coffee.

“So!” my mother said, clapping her hands and following me into the kitchen as Frank ushered his mom through the door and into the living room. “How’s the baby?”

“Fine,” I said, hanging her coat as the doorbell rang again. “Oh, it’s Nancy!” said my mother, like this was the best news in the world.

“Where can I put these?” Nancy demanded, brandishing a pair of raw sweet potatoes like they were grenades.

I put the sweet potatoes and her Brussels sprouts on the counter while Dr. Scott joined Frank on the couch.

Back in the kitchen, my mother was standing over the sink, washing the two teaspoons and the single coffee mug I hadn’t cleaned yet, and Nancy was poking suspiciously at my microwave.

“You look great,” I said, admiring my sister’s belted ivory wool sweater dress and high-heeled caramel-colored leather boots.

“Thanks,” she said. “Anne Klein.” Nancy had a new habit of telling you either who’d designed her outfit or how much it cost. She looked me up and down, clearly struggling to find something nice to say about my dress, the black one she’d seen a million times, and my black ballet slippers. I thought about saying “Target” or “Payless” but figured she wouldn’t get the joke.

“Boys, why don’t you go upstairs and play?” I suggested. For Christmas, Santa had bought them a Wii that I’d put on layaway, and we’d set it up in the bedroom that would be a playroom someday. Frank Junior went thundering up the stairs to claim the first round, while Spencer hung on to my skirt, blinking shyly at his aunt and trying to sneak his thumb into his mouth.

I slid my lasagna out of the oven, tossed lettuce and croutons into a bowl, and put Nancy’s sweet potatoes into the microwave, looking at the clock and knowing that Frank expected dinner on the table at four o’clock sharp.

“Roast beef, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, green beans. . Frank!” I called. “I could use a hand in here!”

Frank didn’t answer. Nancy, frowning, not missing a thing, pulled serving platters out of the cabinet as I put on the oven mitts, crouched down clumsily, and started pulling dishes and platters and roasting pans out of the oven and hurrying food to the table, which I’d set with an ironed white tablecloth and bunches of pine cones that the boys and I had gathered the day before.

My father carved the meat. My mother poured the wine. Nancy pulled out a serving spoon to scoop mashed potatoes. She did it like she was lifting weights or pulling something unpleasant out of the ground, fast and joylessly. Frank helped his mother to the table, then bent his head.

“Let us pray,” said Corrinne. My dad, who’d already started filling his plate, set the spoon down with a clang and a guilty look. I bowed my head, then lifted it, looking sharply at both of my boys until they, too, had dropped their eyes. “Be present at our table, Lord, at Christmas and all times adored. Thy creatures bless and grant that we may feast in paradise with Thee.” She paused, then said, “Help us to do Your bidding, O Lord, to be Your obedient servants, to know Your will and never presume to replace it with our own.”

“A-men!” my father said, and snagged the crispy end of the roast beef off the platter before anyone else could get a crack at it.

Corrinne kept her head bent piously, her hands folded in her lap, before she raised her head and looked at me. “I’ve been praying for you, Annie.”

Puzzled and unsure of the polite response, I just said, “Thank you.” I glanced at Frank, hoping for guidance or, at least, sympathy, but he was focused on spooning green bean casserole onto his plate.

“I should tell you,” Corrinne continued, “that I have concerns about what you’re doing. I’ve discussed it with Pastor.”

Anger curled in my belly and began a slow crawl up my throat. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. Really.”

“But you’re not,” Corrinne said. “I know you think I’m a busybody, but if you saw someone getting ready to jump off a building, you’d try to talk them out of it. That would be your duty.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I lied.

“You have sinned,” she said, as matter-of-factly as if she was telling me I’d brushed my teeth that morning. “You have presumed to know the will of God. But it’s never too late to turn away from wickedness.”

I felt my face get hot. “All I’m trying to do is help my family. How does that mean I’ve presumed to know the will of God?”

“God decides who He blesses with children,” said Corrinne. “All of this science, all these interventions, fly in the face of God’s plan.”

“That’s exactly what I think,” said Nancy. My jaw fell open. I made myself shut it, and looked down at Spencer, who was grimly pushing peas underneath his mashed potatoes. “Used to be, if you were infertile, you’d be an aunt or get a dog or whatever. Now, everyone just thinks they can control everything. Make it just the way they want it.”

“Amen,” said Corrinne. I looked at Frank again, waiting for a lifeboat that clearly wasn’t coming. I narrowed my eyes at my sister, who stared back at me expressionless; my sister with her Botox shots and her banded stomach, lecturing me about how it was wrong to use technology to improve things.

“All I know,” I said, trying not to let them hear my voice shake, “is that I’m making the best decisions I can, for my family.”

“Has anyone tried the lasagna?” my mother chirped from her end of the table. Corrinne finally shut her mouth. My face was burning as I turned to my right in time to see Frank Junior shoving a forkful of stuffing in his mouth. He grimaced, than spat his mouthful into his napkin.

“It’s not from the red box,” he complained.

“Grammy made this from scratch, which is much better.”

“No, it’s not better.” He frowned. “It’s yucky.”

“Frank Junior,” said Frank, raising his voice, and Frank Junior, hearing the implied promise of a spanking, meekly took a bite. I looked at my husband again, hoping against hope that he’d tell everyone that he supported what I was doing; that he approved; that he was grateful. But, after glaring at his son, Frank just kept eating, and, eventually, my mother started chatting with Corrinne about canning tomatoes, and Scott started talking football with anyone who’d listen, and we made it through the meal.

There were presents under the tree for the boys, new shirts and sneakers from my parents, and a book apiece from Nancy and Scott. Spencer was delighted — honestly, Spencer would have been delighted with an empty box and a bow — but Frank Junior rolled his eyes. “More boring books,” he said under his breath. Frank snatched him up so fast that he didn’t have time to scream. He hustled him out the door and around the back of the house, but we could all hear Frank Junior squealing and the sound of his daddy’s hand making contact with his backside; once, twice, three times. I couldn’t keep from wincing. “Spare the rod,” Frank’s mother intoned, and my father yawned, then looked at me and said, “Come on, Annie, it’s not the end of the world. You girls went to bed with warm bottoms a few times, and you’re both just fine.”

I struggled to my feet. “You know what?” My voice was pleasant, even, not too loud. “I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll lie down for a minute.” Ignoring the murmurs of concerns, my mother’s offer to make me a cup of tea and Nancy telling everyone that it was probably heartburn, I hurried up the stairs, collapsed on my bed, and started to cry. I was doing a good thing, I told myself. This was money for the four of us, money that I was working to earn, putting my body through the strains and risks of another pregnancy, so why couldn’t any of them see it? Why didn’t any of them appreciate the sacrifices I was making for Frank, for our boys, for our family? I’d done the best I could, made what I thought was a good decision, and what had I gotten but a husband who wouldn’t look at me or talk to me, a sister who thought I was no better than a prostitute, and a mother-in-law who thought I was immoral?