“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 looked at me briefly before returning to their lively conversations with Mark. Mark seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the moment. He was the center of attention, telling unfunny jokes that were met with exaggerated laughter from his subordinates. Each burst of laughter was like a needle piercing my heart. Their laughter sounded like a grotesque dissonance with my desolate mood. It was like a masquerade ball in the middle of a cemetery. My first duty began. Mark gestured with his eyes for me to serve the drinks quickly. I walked slowly, offering the tray to each guest. My hands trembled from the weight of the tray and from the emotion I was trying to suppress.