“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.

They entered without asking. Their shoes echoed on the floor I had cleaned with so much effort. No one offered me their condolences. Perhaps Mark hadn’t told them. Or perhaps for them, the death of an old woman wasn’t important enough to ruin a party atmosphere. They immediately scattered throughout the living and dining rooms, admiring the furniture and praising Mark’s success on his recent promotion. I stood in a corner, holding a tray with glasses of cold iced tea that I had prepared beforehand. Mark introduced me quickly, not as his grieving wife, but as the hostess, ready to serve. Some of them nodded politely, but their gazes were empty.