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I hated that I cared. I hated even more that Donald knew I would.
My Husband Forced Me to Host His 40th Birthday While I Had a Broken Leg—Then His Mother Walked In and Turned the Celebration Upside Down
So I got up. I rolled my office chair into the kitchen and worked in short, painful bursts, sitting whenever my good leg began to shake. By seven I had two dips, a vegetable tray, salad, and the cake layers. By nine my shoulders burned, and my leg throbbed with every shift.
