“Your mother is gone. Tears won’t bring her back—so wipe your face, make dinner, and don’t look like a grieving child when my guests arrive.” That was what my husband said.

Every time my gaze fell on the photograph of my mother hanging on the living room wall, my heart broke a little more. Mark had ordered me to take it down, saying it ruined the festive atmosphere, but I refused with a defiant look. It was my only act of resistance. Finally, with a long grunt, he allowed me to leave it in its place. Time passed quickly and, cruelly, the smell of food began to fill the house. I was cooking a pot roast, garlic shrimp, and a large loaded baked potato casserole, dishes that would be served at a party or on a day of celebration, not at a banquet built on grief.

Cold sweat ran down my temples. My clothes were soaked with sweat and water from washing dishes. I carefully placed the ceramic plates on the long dining room table. Those plates had been a wedding gift from my mother. I remembered her wrinkled hands caressing them as she gave them to me. Now they would be used by people who didn’t care about her death. Mark came out of the room elegantly dressed and smelling of strong cologne. He looked confident and arrogant. He inspected my work like a ruthless foreman. He tasted a bit of the gravy from the pot roast and nodded without a single word of thanks.