“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.

Seeing that I remained silent with my head down, Mark, impatient, intervened. He let out a chuckle, a clumsy and forced sound. He approached Mr. Harrison, trying to pat his boss on the shoulder, but restrained himself at the last moment. With a condescending tone, Mark said, “Ah, please excuse my wife, sir. She’s like that, a bit of a crybaby, and overly sensitive. You know how women are. Maybe she’s emotional about your visit or just tired from cooking all day. It’s nothing, Mr. Harrison. Don’t worry.” Mark tried to minimize my feelings to turn my pain into a joke or a common female weakness. He wanted to hide at all costs that he was celebrating a party on top of his wife’s grief.